The Dog Stars

  One thing is that Jasper always calmed me down. He didn’t get too excited by much except maybe a wolf track, so I didn’t either.

  But it was calm. Without wind there was no danger. I could make a lean-to of the tarp against a boulder and snuggle into the bag and sleep. Tomorrow morning if the snow was not too deep I could head down and gain the shelter of the trees without trouble, I could fish the creek easy within half a day. A few hours down.

  I had eaten all the jerked venison. A hunger deep, ravenous, alive. Had I not thrown out the other meat, Jasper’s, I would have eaten it now. Who to judge? What matters if it is he or I, we are the same. But I had emptied the bags on the trail days ago.

  Alright. There was water. There was a boulder pile on the other side, the slope side of the lake. I tugged on the sled and took a step and stopped.

  There was a shadow on the ridge. All of this was very close: lake, slope, tumbled scree, sharp ridgeline behind it climbing out of the snowstorm and straight into the low lid of cloud. Just there on the razorback of the spur, just where it disappeared into cloud, a large dark shape. I rubbed the ice out of my eyelashes with the back of my arm and when I focused on the ridge again it was gone.

  Made a slant roof of the blue tarp against a rock, tossed out the smaller stones to make a smooth place to curl up, and covered myself and slept. Slept without dreams, without whelming grief, slept to wake in near absolute darkness to hear the ticking of the snow on the plastic sheeting to sleep again. Woke thinking the shape was large enough to be an elk. Thinking that I had seen no sign and wondering whether it was a good thing or a bad thing to wish for things that aren’t there.

  Tenth day out when I beeped Bangley on the walkie talkie. Early morning. I wasn’t worried much about being covered for the few miles in the open, of being shot or followed out of the trees, but it was our ritual. Also it gave him a little time to readjust to me landing back in his world, maybe a couple of hours to remember how to be human. Maybe. Also if he was scoping the perimeter from the tower in the mansion which he would do every hour, it might save my butt from being fodder for friendly fire. How I go one way or the other never much concerned me but somehow that was one way I refused. I mean the thought of it: Bangley’s mistake. Or maybe not. Maybe a half mistake, unacknowledged like poor old Francis Macomber. That was it. Didn’t want to be him in the Short Happy Life. So I turned on the unit for the first time and squeezed the mike button twice.

  Had two deer in the sled. They were smallish does, but there were two of them, enough maybe to justify the time gone, probably not. Didn’t give a shit. He could say what he liked. Wasn’t his rodeo anymore, wasn’t mine really either, when I thought about it I knew less every day. Didn’t know a goddamn thing.

  One minute, less, then static, and

  Well well. Prodigal Hig. Thought you’d croaked on me. I really did.

  Hi Bruce.

  Considered pause, kind of long. Stops him in his tracks every time. Reflex like pushing a button. Maybe his mom the only one who ever used the name. When she was mad.

  Have some trouble?

  No irony now. Which surprised me. Bangley almost sounded concerned. Hard to tell, though, over the walkie talkies.

  A little.

  Okay. Glad you’re back in one piece.

  Pause.

  Are you? In one piece?

  I held the hand radio out and looked at it. Bangley sounded like a frigging human being. Must be the reception, the static, something in the bending of the radio waves, some kind of solar flare kinda thing, distorting. What he meant was: Do you need help getting across?

  Yup one piece. Legs arms, everything.

  Okay give me ninety minutes.

  10-4.

  Hig?

  Yuh?

  You take a fucking vacation?

  Ah, the old Bangley.

  I keyed the mike. Ninety minutes. Out.

  It was already light. I was squatting in my spot below a slope of ponderosas—a thicket of willows and poplars at the base of the first hills where the creek swung to the south and our trail continued straight east. Across open ground. If I’d had my ducks in a row I would have been set up hours before dawn and not make Bangley walk across to the tower in daylight. He carried the CheyTac .408 which was a light sniper rifle as light as something with that much power can be. His pride and joy, made for walking if you have to walk and still be able to shoot someone in the lungs a mile away.

  I waited ninety minutes with the sun full in my face, which to tell the truth was not the best stratagem, to walk into it half blind, and I was glad to know he was up there in his tower, sun at his back with a clear view to the first trees in perfect light. Had had trouble three times. The one was the girl with the knife which was no trouble at all. I was thinking how trouble was really the last thing I expected, how warm at dawn, fresh with the smell of new grass and early flowers, when I started to walk. I walked for more than an hour the load heavy on the level, both does quartered and piled in the sled, and I was more than halfway to the tower, laboring against the harness, pulling hard, when the radio strapped to my chest came alive.

  Hig you got company. Urgency. A rare alarm.

  Okay. Company.

  I dropped the bridle and spun around. Back along the trail nothing. Tall sage, rabbit brush, gamma grass already knee high. Yellow and white asters blooming, fat bees already feeding, the trail smooth and empty behind me. Heart hammering.

  Hig, they are stalking you. Quarter mile back. Read that? Quarter mile, a little more.

  Okay. Okay. Got it.

  Say 10-4. Repeat back the info. You’re a pilot for chrissakes.

  Jesus Bangley.

  Trying to get you to calm down. Focus on the details. One at a time.

  Mother of christ. Who spawned this guy?

  Pause.

  10 fucking 4. Quarter mile. I am focused.

  Good. Okay, turn back around. Now. Turn back! Look at me. Grab a water bottle. Stretch. Make like you are taking a break. NOW!

  Okay, okay, got it.

  There is no way they can hear us, Hig. The wind is them to you. They are upwind. Look natural. Stretch. Drink. Key the mike like you are scratching your chest. You are all alone out here. As far as they are concerned, Hig, you are solo. Single prey.

  Fucking great.

  Where’s your buddy?

  My buddy? Oh, Jasper. Long story.

  Short pause. Could almost hear the clicking, the slight recalibration of strategy.

  Niner. Got that? Niner is the number. You got niner pursuers.

  Niner? Holy shit.

  Hig they know you are armed. They want your meat they want your weapon. They are not armed. Not with guns. Saw no guns. If they had guns you would be dead by now. Copy?

  Yes, I fucking copy. Nine?

  Hig listen. They have machetes. Looks like machetes or swords.

  Swords? Fucking swords?

  Hig, calm down. They are willing to take some losses. The way I see it. They really want your weapon.

  Fucking Bangley. He was divining all this from two miles away. Standing in the tower leaning into the eyepiece of his spotting scope.

  Great.

  Willing to take some losses. Each one figuring it’ll be the other guy. They want to eat venison and they want the rifle. Read me?

  Yes.

  Say it Hig. Stay focused.

  My heart was hammering. I almost laughed out loud. Right there with the sun at my back looking down the trail through the high brush with a frigging, practically a frigging division of visitors four hundred yards back.

  Say it.

  10-4.

  Good. Settle your breathing.

  Bangley, tell me what the fuck you want me to do? What should I do?

  Breathe, I want you to breathe. They are stalking you Hig. They have all day. The way they see it. No rush. You are moving slow, they will close the distance. Little by little. Then they will charge you. They have done it before. They move like they have d
one this before. Copy?

  Yes I fucking copy. 10-4.

  Okay. You have the advantage. Advantage Hig. Right now you have the edge.

  I do?

  Fucking A, yes Hig. Listen to me.

  I thought right then he sounded a little worried which didn’t reassure me. Nine was a lot of fucking visitors who wanted to kill you. Me.

  Listen to me. Up ahead, east, maybe eighty yards, the trail drops into kind of a draw. Shallow, but deep enough. You stretch and pick up the rope like you are real fatigued and walk on ahead and down into that gully.

  Bangley I am fucking fatigued.

  Good Hig. That’ll keep you calm. No espresso for Hig, not at the moment. Steady hand. We want your hands good and steady. Now walk. There is a large dense sage bush or something on the north side of the trail right in the bottom. Couple of bushes. Perfect. You drag the sled behind that brush and conceal it. Cut branches if you have to. You got two animals in there far as I can make out. Correct?

  You’re good Bruce. You’re incredible.

  Pause while he took that in. Not sure if I was being sarcastic or not, didn’t even matter.

  Glad that is dawning on you, Hig, I really am. The sled, the meat will be your cover. Case I am wrong about the guns. Case they have a weapon. A crossbow or something I can’t see. They don’t, but we want you covered. All exigencies.

  He loved to say that. All exigencies. Well, it was the reason he was still frigging alive. I had to, I was handing it to him. Bangley.

  You hide the sled and set up behind it. Got that?

  Affirmative. Pause. Bangley?

  Go ahead Hig.

  My magazine holds five shots. One in the chamber. Six.

  Pause. I could hear the breeze rattling the rabbit brush. Suddenly seemed really really quiet.

  How am I gonna take out nine if they charge me? With six shots?

  Radio crackle. Don’t know when I was ever so glad to hear that. The sound of intervention, of calm in a firefight, the sound of tactical mastery. Bangley.

  Okay listen, Hig. Breathe and listen. Stretch again. You got no clue, not a single inkling those fuckers are behind you. Wouldn’t hurt to sing.

  Sing?

  Yeah, sing. Or whistle. Nothing more goddamn lulling than a whistle. Now listen, listen to me, Hig. When they come over the edge of that draw you wait. Plan your shots. You are going to be moving right to left. That’s easier for you. Got that?

  Yes.

  Say it.

  Right to left. 10-4.

  Okay. Even if you aren’t having your best goddamn morning you will drop two probably three. At least. You will also be firing from concealment. Those first shots will be a total fucking surprise, believe me. Total shock. They thought they had you. They thought you were some poor exhausted deer hunting bastard on his clueless stroll home. Did not know they were walking into our fucking perimeter.

  He was giving me a pep talk. It was working. Goddamn Bangley.

  Hig?

  Yuh?

  You with me?

  Okay. What the hell are they doing now?

  Don’t worry about them. They got all day, remember? Long as you’re stopped, taking a break, they don’t move. Okay, Hig, you drop two or three first go. Maybe four if it’s your goddamn birthday. Now the rest are diving for cover and trying to locate you. They haven’t had time to locate you. Now you have your ammo handy. Not all in your hand, you might drop the bullets. Line em out onetwothreefour five. Line out ten. Twelve is better if you’re feeling generous. Right there on the sled. Ten.

  Ten.

  Good. You have a side load magazine. Never understood that fucking lever action hunk of nostalgia .308 of yours. What is that? Savage 99?

  He knew exactly what it was.

  Savage fucking 99. Goddamn Hig. Well I’m glad. Now I’m glad.

  You are?

  Fucking A. Side load magazine. That’ll be a lot quicker than turning it over. Just thumb em in. One at a time, no hurry. If you have time lever it slow and quiet and feed in the sixth. Quiet cuz you don’t want em to locate you if they haven’t. And they haven’t. Got it?

  I took a deep breath. I was exhausted. I was suddenly really really happy to have Bangley as backup. Never been happier.

  Got it. 10 motherfucking 4.

  That’s my Hig. Now there will be anywhere from seven to five left. You are in cover, concealed, and if they think it’s worth their own worthless hide to keep coming, after you just dropped their buddies, they are more serious than I think they are. They probably won’t. But they might be pissed, too. The pissed factor. Gotta give that some weight. The totally-apeshit you-just-killed-my-retarded-twin-brother factor. Which case you really got the edge.

  I started laughing. Right there with the sun on my face, and the breeze coming off the mountains, carrying, probably, the scent eau de marauder, and my dog dead, I started laughing.

  You laughing or crying?

  He sounded seriously concerned.

  Laughing, I’m laughing. Jasper died. In his sleep.

  Sorry, Hig. I am. Now pull yourself together. Hig!

  Okay okay. The totally-apeshit-retarded-brother factor. I’m with you, Bangley.

  On task Hig. Stay on task. You got four to seven left. If they do charge you in anger just pot a couple more, we’re all done here. Rest will back off, guaranteed. If they are smarter than they look, they will spread out first. They will try to flank you. That’d be serious but I have a good angle. Remember when you wanted to build the tower twenty feet high? Stop at twenty? And I said thirty and made you cranky for two weeks? Remember? And the porch? My double joisted reinforced porch? This is why. I can see em. Every one. They are gone to ground now, but when they move, even in a crouch, I got em. So stay put. If they spread out, just reload and I’ll call em. You face the needle rock, due west, that’s twelve o’clock and I’ll call em from there. Direction and distance. Be like sporting clays.

  Hig? You got that?

  Sporting clays. Needle rock is twelve o’clock.

  Good boy. You actually sound composed, Hig. Just thought of something. You packing your backup? Your Glock?

  Yes.

  In like Flynn. We do everything like I just said. All else fails, one gets too close, just draw that sucker and plug him. Make sure it’s racked. Wait til you get down out of sight and make sure it’s racked. Got it?

  Got—10-4.

  Now pack up your water bottle, start whistling, pick up the rope and move.

  That’s what I did. I whistled. I put the harness over my forehead like a tump line, which was a way to relieve my shoulders, and I began to walk again. Real slow. I was suddenly tired to the bone, more tired than I could remember being. There was part of me that just wanted to lie down and sleep in the warm early sun, let them take the meat, the gun, my life. Get it all over with. But then another part wanted to work with Bangley. I mean I could tell he was excited by this challenge and I could tell the fucker actually believed in me. That I could pull this off. Weird, but I wanted to do it partly for him. Why I guess a team is usually stronger than the sum of individuals. I bent forward and dug in and tugged like a mule in harness and got the sled moving on the smooth trail which, once it was, it was easy to keep going. I got to the lip of the shallow draw and gathered the bridle in one hand, and backed up and picked up the sawed off kayak by the bow handle, and eased it over the edge. I controlled it by hand on the way down the little slope. At the bottom, while it was still sledding, I tugged as hard as I could and ran across. Sandy there, open in the bottom. Went as fast as I could. Once I had dropped out of sight they would be making up ground behind me, running themselves. I hustled the sled into the thick sage on the far side and levered it sideways to the trail. Almost the same movement I reached for the big Buck knife and started cutting thick branches. In less than a minute I had the sled well covered. Had been a green kayak, forest green, and I was suddenly very frigging glad I had had the foresight to pick something almost camo rather than something
like bright fuchsia.

  Fifty yards Hig. Fifty yards to the draw.

  I worked the rifle out of its binding on the sled, the one box of shells, and lay down, lay the rifle over the flat hard hide of a hind quarter. Always quartered the animals hide-on, skinned them later which was more difficult but preserved the meat much better in transport. Glad I did now. The short fur made a good solid rest for the barrel of the .308.

  Thirty yards. Thirty Hig.

  Whispering now, close to it.

  Slowing down. Single file on the easy trail. They don’t have a clue, Hig. Got that? Advantage Hig. Just stay calm, wait for the bulk of em to come down into the bottom, and take em right to left, front to back. Reload. Do it again. You’ll be fine. Gonna shut up now. Have fun.

  He was out. Bangley. Such a weird thing to say: Have fun. But the fucker meant it, that was the thing. It did something to my head. I was amped. Balanced the rifle on the deer hide, took the Glock out of the paddle holster on my belt and racked it, lay it on the fur to the right. Two feet over. Shook the red plastic bullet holders out of the box and worked each bullet out and lay it on the fur to the right of the rifle point forward, so I could thumb them in without changing their direction. My hands were shaking a little. Just a little. Have fun. Kind of changed everything. You got exactly nothing to lose Hig. That’s what I told myself. So have fun. Heart thumping, but it was the almost happy anxious thump I remembered from playing soccer in high school. I was a goalie, the last stop, the last resort, the ultimate repository of the team’s trust, and that’s what it felt like now. Fuck up, you might as well crawl under a rock. But once it started it was all action, no thought, and the joy pushed up through the fear. That’s almost how it felt now. Nothing to lose is very close to the Samurai You are already dead. That’s what I told myself.

  Lay thirteen brass shells out in a row. Lucky 13. I worked the lever and jacked a bullet into the chamber and thumbed the first into the magazine. Twelve left, a row of bright brass soldiers. Two full reloads. One deep breath and settled. Relaxed weight against the deer’s thigh bone under the muscle and hide. Pressed into my chest. Right hand around the receiver finger on the trigger and sighted both eyes open on the patch of dirt that was the trail where it dropped over the edge of the draw, the dirt almost polished with the passage of the sled, the passage of our years. Maybe a hundred and fifty feet. And