sooner had Chip knocked on Slade's door, introducing himself, saying he wanted to talk about bears, than Slade asked, "Wha' happened to yuh, boy? Looks like yuh stuck yer fool head into an oven."
"Airplane crash, Mr. Slade."
He'd thought of hanging a sign on his chest: Burn victim! Plane crash! It did no good to become angry, even annoyed. Just shrug and answer.
"Well, yuh are sure messed up, boy."
"I know," Chip said, patiently.
"You gonna study bars, eh?"
Chip nodded. "That's right, Mr. Slade. I'll help a graduate student from NC State. He's doing a two-year survey to try and count the bears back here. He's a biologist."
"Whatziz name?" The milky blue eyes narrowed.
"Thomas Telford."
"I ain't never had much use for students o' any kind."
"Well, he's more than a student. You'll meet him, I'm sure."
Squinting, suspicious, Slade asked slyly, "Yuh two got anythin' to do with liftin' the huntin' ban?"
"Dunnegan told me the count will help Fish and Wildlife make a decision."
"Them meddling jackasses," Slade snarled, wiping the corner of his mouth, milky blue eyes catching fire, fists knotting.
The ban wasn't why Chip had come to Skycoat. "What do you remember about bears? What single thing sticks out in your memory, Mr. Slade?"
Chip talked to Slade for more than an hour, getting a feel for the Powhatan blacksâwhat part of the swamp they usually stayed in, where the food was, things he could relay to Telford.
When he got up to leave Skycoat, Slade asked again about the bear count and what it had to do with lifting the ban. Chip repeated himself and hurried away, wondering if he'd made a mistake talking to the old trapper.
***
HALF an hour later, Slade was in Grace Crosby's, the only filling station in Skycoat.
"There's a young fella from Raleigh gonna count
the bars so the governmint can keep us outta the swamp some more. Name is Telford. Him an' a boy with a messed-up face..."
Skycoat wasn't much. Sloan's, the general store; Crosby's; and the farm equipment repair shop. They wouldn't have existed at all if two country roads didn't cross there. Sloan's had been there since Model T's chugged along, before the roads were paved. Crosby's and the tractor garage had come later.
Slade always made a point of hanging around Sloan's or Grace's from five to six or so to get his day's talking in. That's when the area people usually showed up for one reason or another. Slade preferred Crosby's and sat by the doorway now, cane in hand.
Grace suffered Skycoat's biggest gossip. She usually had greasy hands and wore a smudged blue polka-dot bandanna on her bushy brown hair.
By nightfall, the news had spread. Area hunters began to hear about Tom Telford, a bear counter from Raleigh, young college "fella."
***
LATE MAY: Sam stopped her mother's Bronco in front of the small farm on Tucker Road, another of those lonely, unpaved two-lane country lanes that crisscrossed Albemarle County. Hesitating about what she planned to do, she sat for a moment looking at the
meager frame house. Weeds had conquered the yard, and the dingy, peeling one-story place, window blinds at half-mast, badly needed a face-lift. Only the presence of a dusty old Dodge in the driveway indicated someone was probably home.
Almost hidden by the weeds was a sign, Julia HowellâSeamstress, with a phone number.
Sam took a deep breath, climbed out, and walked up to the porch. She said to herself, "She will think I'm crazy," but she pushed the bell button nonetheless.
A moment later, the door opened, and Sam said, "Mrs. Howell?"
"Yes," the woman answered, likely expecting a customer.
She was pale and gray-haired and wiry, but not frail. Her horn-rimmed glasses were shoved up on her forehead as if she'd been interrupted from work. She wore faded jeans, a pink cotton blouse, and fluffy blue bedroom slippers.
"I'm Samantha Sanders. You may remember my name...."
Mrs. Howell frowned.
"I'm the one who found Mr. Howell...."
The frown widened. "You're
"Airplane crash, Mr. Slade."
He'd thought of hanging a sign on his chest: Burn victim! Plane crash! It did no good to become angry, even annoyed. Just shrug and answer.
"Well, yuh are sure messed up, boy."
"I know," Chip said, patiently.
"You gonna study bars, eh?"
Chip nodded. "That's right, Mr. Slade. I'll help a graduate student from NC State. He's doing a two-year survey to try and count the bears back here. He's a biologist."
"Whatziz name?" The milky blue eyes narrowed.
"Thomas Telford."
"I ain't never had much use for students o' any kind."
"Well, he's more than a student. You'll meet him, I'm sure."
Squinting, suspicious, Slade asked slyly, "Yuh two got anythin' to do with liftin' the huntin' ban?"
"Dunnegan told me the count will help Fish and Wildlife make a decision."
"Them meddling jackasses," Slade snarled, wiping the corner of his mouth, milky blue eyes catching fire, fists knotting.
The ban wasn't why Chip had come to Skycoat. "What do you remember about bears? What single thing sticks out in your memory, Mr. Slade?"
Chip talked to Slade for more than an hour, getting a feel for the Powhatan blacksâwhat part of the swamp they usually stayed in, where the food was, things he could relay to Telford.
When he got up to leave Skycoat, Slade asked again about the bear count and what it had to do with lifting the ban. Chip repeated himself and hurried away, wondering if he'd made a mistake talking to the old trapper.
***
HALF an hour later, Slade was in Grace Crosby's, the only filling station in Skycoat.
"There's a young fella from Raleigh gonna count
the bars so the governmint can keep us outta the swamp some more. Name is Telford. Him an' a boy with a messed-up face..."
Skycoat wasn't much. Sloan's, the general store; Crosby's; and the farm equipment repair shop. They wouldn't have existed at all if two country roads didn't cross there. Sloan's had been there since Model T's chugged along, before the roads were paved. Crosby's and the tractor garage had come later.
Slade always made a point of hanging around Sloan's or Grace's from five to six or so to get his day's talking in. That's when the area people usually showed up for one reason or another. Slade preferred Crosby's and sat by the doorway now, cane in hand.
Grace suffered Skycoat's biggest gossip. She usually had greasy hands and wore a smudged blue polka-dot bandanna on her bushy brown hair.
By nightfall, the news had spread. Area hunters began to hear about Tom Telford, a bear counter from Raleigh, young college "fella."
***
LATE MAY: Sam stopped her mother's Bronco in front of the small farm on Tucker Road, another of those lonely, unpaved two-lane country lanes that crisscrossed Albemarle County. Hesitating about what she planned to do, she sat for a moment looking at the
meager frame house. Weeds had conquered the yard, and the dingy, peeling one-story place, window blinds at half-mast, badly needed a face-lift. Only the presence of a dusty old Dodge in the driveway indicated someone was probably home.
Almost hidden by the weeds was a sign, Julia HowellâSeamstress, with a phone number.
Sam took a deep breath, climbed out, and walked up to the porch. She said to herself, "She will think I'm crazy," but she pushed the bell button nonetheless.
A moment later, the door opened, and Sam said, "Mrs. Howell?"
"Yes," the woman answered, likely expecting a customer.
She was pale and gray-haired and wiry, but not frail. Her horn-rimmed glasses were shoved up on her forehead as if she'd been interrupted from work. She wore faded jeans, a pink cotton blouse, and fluffy blue bedroom slippers.
"I'm Samantha Sanders. You may remember my name...."
Mrs. Howell frowned.
"I'm the one who found Mr. Howell...."
The frown widened. "You're
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