would be closer.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re going to want a good shot at him, I know.”
Steve met the eyes of his hunting partner and saw no need to deny it. “I appreciate that, Marcus.”
“So go ahead and take the closer one. I’ll back you up from that other spot.” Marcus looked up the trail and listened to the river a moment. “Maybe you won’t even need me.”
Steve knew what Marcus was driving at. “You are going to shoot, aren’t you?”
Marcus smiled resignedly. “Don’t have much choice. Around here we’ve got Herman, two young boars, three sows, and that’s it. If there’s some other nut-case bear out there, we don’t know about it, we’ve never seen it, and we’ve never gotten any reports. So, yeah, it must be Herman. I just don’t want to believe it, that’s all.”
“Maybe after today we’ll know.”
“Well, it’s been at least thirty-six hours. And we didn’t see anything in the scat.” Marcus stopped speaking abruptly, aware he was on thin ice. “Oh brother, I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it’s all right,” Steve said. He understood Marcus’s dilemma. The evidence of what a bear had eaten some thirty-six hours before would most likely be a pile of scat on a game trail by now, and they both knew it. What made the matter difficult to discuss was the possibility that the pile of scat could consist of Steve’s brother.
Steve reiterated what he’d said on the trail earlier. “Marcus, just standing back from it, I agree with you. After this long, we might autopsy 318 and not find a thing. And you’re right, the scat we found didn’t show anything either. So . . . we’re about to shoot a bear on circumstantial evidence.”
Marcus shrugged. “His days were numbered anyway.”
Steve set to work on the baiting area. He’d said enough and heard enough.
They cleared a wide spot on the ground, dumped the doughnuts in a heap, then poured the grease over the doughnuts.
“Woo!” said Marcus. “Good stuff.” It was a smell no bear could resist.
Then each man worked his way carefully through the underbrush to his hiding place, and so began the wait.
LEVI WASN’T worth much the rest of the day. He managed to carry on conversations with those who stopped by to fill their tanks, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts on fishing talk or complaints about growling noises in transmissions. Whenever he was alone, his thoughts centered on what had happened at Wells Peak, and he talked about it to whatever object was available and wouldn’t interrupt. First he muttered to the gas pumps as he swept around them. “Wells Peak . . . come on now, help me out. Who’s been up there before that you know about and what for and when? No, I don’t know. Shhh! Beats me. Don’t even know who to ask . . .”
Then he discussed things with a Ford pickup while he greased the bearings. “Well, sure, somebody out there knows something, but you think they’ll ever tell me? No sir, not on your life or mine or anybody’s—boy, how long’s it been since you’ve had this done? You’re feeling kinda worn right here, pretty dry. . . Well, anyway, to heck with ’em. They made the mess; they can clean it up.” Then he felt ashamed. “I know I shouldn’t be talkin’ that way, but . . .”
Then he sat at his grubby desk inside the garage and went through some bills while he talked to the tools hanging on the walls around him. “Cliff Benson. He was a photographer. Don’t imagine you’ve ever heard of him. I sure haven’t.” He let the bills fall to his desk as he looked out the murky window and up the street. “It’d be nice to know what the folks in town are thinking. Betcha they’re just jawin’ up a storm.”
He leaned back in his old wooden, wheeled office chair, his paunch hanging over his belt buckle, and asked the floor jack, “You’ve been around here a long time. You know people. You think that guy was the stranger Jerry made him out to be?” He snickered to
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re going to want a good shot at him, I know.”
Steve met the eyes of his hunting partner and saw no need to deny it. “I appreciate that, Marcus.”
“So go ahead and take the closer one. I’ll back you up from that other spot.” Marcus looked up the trail and listened to the river a moment. “Maybe you won’t even need me.”
Steve knew what Marcus was driving at. “You are going to shoot, aren’t you?”
Marcus smiled resignedly. “Don’t have much choice. Around here we’ve got Herman, two young boars, three sows, and that’s it. If there’s some other nut-case bear out there, we don’t know about it, we’ve never seen it, and we’ve never gotten any reports. So, yeah, it must be Herman. I just don’t want to believe it, that’s all.”
“Maybe after today we’ll know.”
“Well, it’s been at least thirty-six hours. And we didn’t see anything in the scat.” Marcus stopped speaking abruptly, aware he was on thin ice. “Oh brother, I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it’s all right,” Steve said. He understood Marcus’s dilemma. The evidence of what a bear had eaten some thirty-six hours before would most likely be a pile of scat on a game trail by now, and they both knew it. What made the matter difficult to discuss was the possibility that the pile of scat could consist of Steve’s brother.
Steve reiterated what he’d said on the trail earlier. “Marcus, just standing back from it, I agree with you. After this long, we might autopsy 318 and not find a thing. And you’re right, the scat we found didn’t show anything either. So . . . we’re about to shoot a bear on circumstantial evidence.”
Marcus shrugged. “His days were numbered anyway.”
Steve set to work on the baiting area. He’d said enough and heard enough.
They cleared a wide spot on the ground, dumped the doughnuts in a heap, then poured the grease over the doughnuts.
“Woo!” said Marcus. “Good stuff.” It was a smell no bear could resist.
Then each man worked his way carefully through the underbrush to his hiding place, and so began the wait.
LEVI WASN’T worth much the rest of the day. He managed to carry on conversations with those who stopped by to fill their tanks, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts on fishing talk or complaints about growling noises in transmissions. Whenever he was alone, his thoughts centered on what had happened at Wells Peak, and he talked about it to whatever object was available and wouldn’t interrupt. First he muttered to the gas pumps as he swept around them. “Wells Peak . . . come on now, help me out. Who’s been up there before that you know about and what for and when? No, I don’t know. Shhh! Beats me. Don’t even know who to ask . . .”
Then he discussed things with a Ford pickup while he greased the bearings. “Well, sure, somebody out there knows something, but you think they’ll ever tell me? No sir, not on your life or mine or anybody’s—boy, how long’s it been since you’ve had this done? You’re feeling kinda worn right here, pretty dry. . . Well, anyway, to heck with ’em. They made the mess; they can clean it up.” Then he felt ashamed. “I know I shouldn’t be talkin’ that way, but . . .”
Then he sat at his grubby desk inside the garage and went through some bills while he talked to the tools hanging on the walls around him. “Cliff Benson. He was a photographer. Don’t imagine you’ve ever heard of him. I sure haven’t.” He let the bills fall to his desk as he looked out the murky window and up the street. “It’d be nice to know what the folks in town are thinking. Betcha they’re just jawin’ up a storm.”
He leaned back in his old wooden, wheeled office chair, his paunch hanging over his belt buckle, and asked the floor jack, “You’ve been around here a long time. You know people. You think that guy was the stranger Jerry made him out to be?” He snickered to
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