The Last Homestead Page 10

  Goulsby nodded, a wide-eyed look on his face. Denny knew the man didn’t want to be anywhere near the bear when it came.

  Denny hadn’t gone thirty yards towards where the bear was apparently waiting, wounded, when the animal reacted. Letting out a huge roar, it came for Denny. Caraway was ready, and prayed Goulsby would react properly. As soon as the bear cleared the bushes, Denny fired a shot just beneath its chin. The bear dropped, then got right back up again. “Shoot!” Denny yelled, just before putting another one-hundred-and-eighty grain bullet into the bear’s chest as it rose. He didn’t hear a shot from Goulsby’s direction. The bear turned around after being hit again and disappeared back into the brush, still roaring loudly.

  Standing there for a moment, rifle raised and ready, Denny chanced a look in his client’s direction. Goulsby was standing there, his rifle held in both hands in front of him. He seemed frozen in place. Watching the bushes, Denny walked sideways over to where Goulsby still stood unmoving, a totally blank look on his face. Denny shook him by the arm and the fear-filled hunter jerked at the touch, then looked at Denny and said, “Did you get him?”

  Disgusted, Denny took the man’s big magnum from him and handed him his trusty old ‘06. Loosening the quick detachable mounts and removing the scope, Denny asked Goulsby how the iron sights were adjusted.

  He answered, “Twenty-five yards.”

  Removing his pack and leaving it and the scope on the ground by Goulsby’s feet and getting right in the man’s face again, he said, “Goulsby, don’t do a damn thing. Just stand right here. If the bear comes at you, try and take a shot with the Winchester.”

  Goulsby simply nodded.

  Turning, Denny went towards the willows once again, cursing under his breath, the big rifle feeling unfamiliar in his hands. He hoped things would go right. Speaking in a whisper, Caraway said, “Gramps, if you’re there, I could use a hand on this one.”

  Coming to within ten yards of the willows, Denny picked up a rock and tossed it in the direction the bear had taken. No response. He could see a tunnel going through the bushes, a bear trail worked into the willows over years of use. There was nothing left to do but follow.

  Denny had the metallic taste of fear in his mouth. Still, he pressed on. Stopping suddenly, Caraway thought he saw a large, dark shape in front of him off the right side of the trail. It wasn’t moving. Denny took two more steps, rifle at the ready, and he could see the bear’s form, head up, facing him. The animal was still alive, but too sick to move. It lowered its head, and quickly sighting the rifle, Denny fired a round to strike the bear’s neck squarely, just below the head. A spasm went through the animal, and a long release of air came from its lungs, almost a moan. It was over.

  Working another round into the gun’s chamber, Denny waited for several minutes before approaching the animal and poking the muzzle at its open eye. It was dead.

  Denny came out of the willows to find Goulsby standing exactly as he had been when he left him to finish the bear. He was disgusted. “Come help me,” was all he said. Goulsby followed obediently to where the bear was lying.

  It was a long and difficult process, skinning out the bear where it lay in the brush, getting no help from the client. Denny was glad, not wanting to have anything to do with Goulsby, and he worked steadily until the job was done. Loading the heavy hide on his pack rack, Denny and the now subdued client headed back to the cabin. No words were passed between the two men as they silently hiked along. Once back at camp, Goulsby went inside while Denny spread out the hide hair side down and thoroughly coated the skin side with salt. Rolling it up into a neat bundle, he stashed in under the cabin in the shade, inside a large game bag. Denny called the pilot to let him know the hunt was over and to please come get the client. The pilot said they’d come in early the next morning.

  The evening went well enough, at least for Denny. Scant conversation and a quiet meal. Trying to make the best of it, Denny told Goulsby he had a good trophy to take home with him.

  Goulsby gave him a sharp look, lit up another cigarette, then stood looking out the window, his back to Denny. Caraway went outside to square away his things still in the tent, resolved this was going to be his last hunt for or with anyone else.

  Early the next morning the plane came. Goulsby had been packed up and waiting for several hours. Caraway figured the man wanted to get away from him as soon as possible, his ego deflated. He offered to help with the client’s bags, and was refused with a simple “No thanks.” Shrugging his shoulders, Denny wished him a good trip home and went into the tent to gather his own gear.

  O’Bannion came in a few minutes later, obviously upset, his face beet red.

  “What happened here, Caraway! Goulsby said he’d never hunt with me again. Told me he had a rough time with you, and suggested I get an assistant with more consideration for a customer.”

  “I’m not surprised. Well, he can relax, I’m done guiding, for you or anyone else.”

  “What are you talking about? I need you to stay on longer. I couldn’t get anyone to fill in for Jerry yet.”

  “Mr. O’Bannion, I told you I would do this one hunt to help you out. Now I’m through. I was obligated to build you the two cabins and did you a favor staying with an inexperienced hunter, a spineless man, who could well have gotten me killed yesterday. I wouldn’t hunt rabbits with the guy. I’m just glad one of us isn’t hurt or dead.”

  “Dammit, sometimes that’s the way a hunt goes. Just part of the business. Can’t you handle it?”

  “O’Bannion, if I couldn’t handle it, a grizzly bear skin wouldn’t be stashed under the cabin. I’m just not interested. I’m going to need a flight back to Fairbanks once the client is deposited at the airport, if you wouldn’t mind. I’d appreciate you sending my pay to the P.O. box I gave you.”

  “If you don’t have the decency to help me out and do another hunt, you’ll get your check at season’s end and not before.”

  Denny stepped forward, until he was a few inches from O’Bannion’s face, and said, “I really wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

  Carlton stood his ground for a few seconds, but the obvious anger and resolve in Caraway’s intense stare had the effect it usually did. O’Bannion turned and walked out of the tent, then turned and yelled, “If you don’t stay on, you can find your own way home.” He was sure Denny would give in to his ultimatum. But he didn’t know the man.

  “Suits me, O’Bannion, but I better have my money soon, or I’ll find you and we’ll get squared away.”

  The guide, shaking with anger, cursed at Denny and stomped back to the airplane. Denny didn’t know what he told the pilot, and a few minutes later the plane was headed out, and Denny was alone in the camp.

  Fixing himself a cup of tea, and lighting up another bowl of pipe tobacco, Denny gave himself time to calm down and consider the situation. He had the feeling O’Bannion wasn’t kidding. He decided to wait until the end of the next day to be sure the plane wasn’t back for him. It was actually pleasant being alone in the camp despite the situation. Denny settled in for the evening. Some food, a mug of tea, and another pipeful of good tobacco had a calming effect on him, and he soon drifted off to sleep.

  Caraway woke the next morning to a welcome silence. No snoring, no complaining. Going down to the little lake, he had a bracing wash up in the cold water that had him wide awake by the time he was done. He had a big breakfast that would have done Goulsby justice, then stayed in with the screened windows open, reading a book he had brought, waiting for the sound of the Cessna coming in.

  By late afternoon, Denny decided O’Bannion had indeed left him to his own devices. He could have called him on the phone, then thought better of it, not wanting to give the man an opportunity to try and force him into another hunt. No, he’d make his own way out of the area. He wasn’t particularly worried about getting to the Richardson Highway to the east, he was simply pissed off at O’Bannion for deserting him. The guide had shown his true colors, and they
weren’t pretty. Denny would settle with him when he got back to Fairbanks. He had no doubt he’d get there. It might even be a good trek.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Early the next morning, Denny set out. He had all the gear he needed to make the trip, and had enough food for three days’ travel, which he figured would be enough to make it to the highway. Stepping out of the cabin, he took a sighting from his old compass, locating a few degrees north of dead east. Adjusting the pistol on his hip and the pack on his back, taking his rifle in hand, the homesteader started out.

  The first day went much as he had expected, hiking over wide areas of tundra, crossing numerous small streams, and working his way cautiously through willow thickets. Caraway moved carefully to avoid possible injury. He planned on having a smooth, steady walk out, though he knew that in the bush anything could happen.

  Surprisingly, he saw no large game the first day, only some birds and a couple of hares. He did come across several piles of bear scat, not fresh and no worry.

  Mid-day, he stopped briefly to have something to eat to keep his strength up. He started a small fire, adding green wood to make smoke and keep the bugs at bay, so he could enjoy his sandwich in peace. He sat, not really thinking about anything, merely chewing and resting. Finished, he took out a piece of moose jerky to chew while walking, hoisted his pack, and after taking another compass sighting, continued on.

  When Denny was tired enough to stop, he found a spot by the edge of a creek where he could use the plastic tarp he brought to make a shelter, draping it over an opening in some willows.

  Gathering what wood he’d need to cook a little meal and keep the chill off, he settled in for the evening, even though it was full daylight, being the longest day of summer. The light didn’t stop Caraway from dozing off. It had been a long walk from the hunting camp, and the wide expanses of muskeg he had to cross were no joy to walk on. You never knew how deep your foot would sink, the solidity of each step varying.

  Smoking his pipe, Denny felt fine, doing the thing he loved best, wandering in beautiful Alaskan country. Though he had been forced into taking this hike, that fact was secondary to the pleasure he felt being in the best place he knew. His pipe out, Denny dozed off.

  Several hours later he woke up, his sixth sense alerting him to something being around. He put his hand on the butt of his .44 and listened carefully. He heard a quick scurrying sound close behind him, and waited. A moment later, a red fox peeped its head around the willows in front of Denny, just a few feet away. The animal stood unmoving, only his head in view, watching Denny where he sat. Denny quietly said, “Hello Mr. fox, any luck hunting this evening?”

  The fox didn’t even flinch at the sound of a human voice. It kept watching him, a sly, intelligent look on its face. Denny sat watching the animal until it finally withdrew beyond his view, though Denny had the feeling it wasn’t far away. Hoping the fox would be the only animal to disturb his sleep, he nodded off again.

  Denny awoke a brief while later, to the sound of something being dragged on the ground. He saw the bottom of his pack as it disappeared into the bushes. Throwing himself forward, he managed to grab one strap and retrieve it. A moment later, the fox’s head appeared out of the willows, the obvious culprit in the foiled pack heist.

  Smiling, Denny told the fox he needed his supplies more than it did.

  The fox, sorry it hadn’t made off with the prize, slunk away, a disappointed look on its face.

  Stirring the coals in his fire, Denny boiled some water in his little tin can with the wire handle, made some tea, ate several more pieces of jerky, and a slice of bread with some peanut butter spread on it with two fingers.

  Rising up, he worked out the kinks as best he could. It would take some walking to get rid of the stiffness in his muscles, reminding him he wasn’t a young man anymore. Walking up a slight rise to get a better view of the land ahead, Denny saw forested country a mile away to the east. He looked forward to a change from the miles of tundra he had already traversed.

  He hadn’t been hiking long when he saw the fox trotting about fifty feet behind him. When Denny stopped to look at him, the fox stopped too. Seeing no harm in it, Denny continued on. Glancing back occasionally, he noted the fox continuing to follow along. Caraway wasn’t sure why the fox was still traveling with him, especially since he hadn’t given it any food. Denny had seen animals do some unusual things in the past — unexpected behavior, so he merely shrugged and continued on.

  He came to a wide, fast-running creek and, having done it numerous times before, took off his boots and socks once again, rolled up his pants, and forded the icy water. On the other side, drying his feet with his bandana, he put his socks and boots back on, rolled down his pants, and pushing through a fringe of willows entered the trees ahead of him, the ones he had seen earlier. Though he thought it would make a nice change from the tundra, this was a section of forest full of blow downs and dense undergrowth. It turned out to be difficult to consistently move in the direction he wanted to go. The forest kept moving him around with obstacles. Changing direction out of necessity, he had to keep referring to the compass to stay on course.

  The bugs in the trees were thicker than on the tundra where a good breeze could put them off. After putting on his head net, Denny had to be careful not to tear the fragile barrier on one of the many small broken branches sticking out from tree trunks all around him. The steady buzz of the insects added to the unpleasant atmosphere of the forest.

  He had been hiking for several hours when he noticed the fox out of the corner of his eye, gliding through the trees to his left. He was surprised to see him because, when he had forded the last stream, the fox seemed put off by the water, trotting back and forth on the far bank. Denny thought he had seen the last of him, but was obviously mistaken. It was a young fox, and probably hadn’t established a territory of his own yet. So here they were, two guys out for a stroll, neither of them in country they could call their own. Caraway didn’t mind the little creature’s company.

  All day Denny kept moving, finally leaving the oppressive forested area behind, back on open ground, fording several more small creeks, avoiding boggy places, and crossing lots of tundra. Every little while he caught a glimpse of the fox tagging along, and once saw it catch a small rodent and stop to hunker down and eat its prey. Caraway kept moving, not expecting the fox to catch up to him. But soon enough, it appeared about ten yards off to his left again, seemingly pacing him as he walked.

  Much as Denny enjoyed the country, by the time afternoon came around, it was becoming tedious. Walking on muskeg was wearing on him. He tried not to think about O’Bannion, the reason for this forced trek, but couldn’t help wondering how it would be when he got back to Fairbanks and went to get his pay from the man. Denny intended to do whatever was necessary to get paid. He hoped O’Bannion would see the sense of paying him off right away to end the episode. Caraway would only know what was to be when he got there.

  While considering a stop for the day, by mere luck he spotted a willow ptarmigan barely twenty feet away. It was a plump little hen, so Denny slowly sat down, pulled his .44 pistol out and, resting his arms on his knees, squeezed off a shot. It was perfect, the heavy bullet striking at the base of the hapless bird’s neck, cleanly removing the neck and head. Now he had a real dinner. Smiling to himself at what a perfect shot it had been, he cleaned the bird, plucking the feathers as he walked. The fox, spooked by the report of the gun, ran fifty yards away to stand and see what was coming next. As Denny walked away, feathers scattering in the breeze as he went, the fox ran to the tiny gut pile and slurped it up. When the bird was clean, the homesteader dropped it into his pack and continued on.

  He hadn’t gone another mile when he heard an awful ruckus up ahead beyond a small mound in front of him. Walking directly to the little hillock, he kept it between him and whatever was roaring and growling behind it. He had a pretty good idea what was going on.

  Sure enough, when he got to a goo
d vantage point, having crawled as slowly as he could to see over the rise, there was a female grizzly with two cubs standing at a distance behind her, and a much larger bear facing her. They were both on their hind legs in a typical bear fighting position, with their necks outstretched and their heads jutting forward.

  The big bear had probably been following the trio, hoping for an easy meal. The mama bear was having none of it. There was nothing Denny knew of as fierce and determined as a mother bear defending her young, and her attitude was not lost on the male bear who seemed to be having some second thoughts. Just as he turned his head away a few degrees, the female lunged at him, quick as only a bear can be, actually knocking the big male backwards onto the ground. Though the boar got up quickly, it was clear he was through. His head turned, and keeping an eye on the female, he cautiously sidled away.

  The sow didn’t move towards him, but kept watch until the male had walked away up a long slope to Denny’s left, which was fine with Caraway. He was glad the bear, in an obviously bad mood, hadn’t headed in his direction. Denny slipped away out of sight of the female and walked to the southeast, checking his old compass to stay on track.

  Heavy dark clouds had been building, and Denny knew he was going to get wet. He made for a large outcropping of lichen-covered rocks up ahead, hoping to find a little shelter.

  Luckily, there was enough of an overhang on one side to at least keep him out of the worst of the rain to come. Denny gathered what small wood he could find that would burn, got a fire going, and soon had the bird from his pack skewered on a willow stalk over the flames. It was almost fully cooked when big drops began to fall, and within a few minutes the small fire was totally out. Denny tucked his tarp around him to wait it out, gnawing on the mostly cooked meat as the skies opened up. The rain was heavy and strong, and despite his slight shelter and the tarp, Denny was soon miserably wet, though no longer hungry, having polished off every little bit of the tough bird.