Hunter's Moon (7 page)

"Okay, guys," she said. "Looks like you get first crack at that bull. We're downwind of him, so if we take it slow and quiet he shouldn't hear us coming. Let's have some lunch first, though." "No, let's go," Dieter said, shifting his rifle from one shoulder to the other. "Maybe he'll get away." Kate shook her head. "He'll be there, and we haven't had anything to eat in four hours. A shaky hand isn't going to do your aim any good.

Come on, sit down." She met his glare with a steady, implacable gaze.

Eberhard touched Dieter's shoulder and murmured something in German. Dieter's face cleared and he laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh in any language, and so was the look he ran over Kate. "Yeah, okay, we eat." He made it sound like a command, and as if on cue, Eberhard dumped his pack board and opened his fanny pack.

Kate sat a little apart from them and ate her sandwich, apple and cookies, with her rifle on her knees. She hadn't seen any sign of bears but it never hurt to stay alert. She'd known those who hadn't, but the friendships were never of a very long duration.

Dieter completed his meal by crumpling up the Saran wrap his sandwiches had come in and tossing it over his shoulder.

Kate took a deep breath, held it, and let it out again. "Dieter," she said, "pick that up."

Dieter appeared genuinely confused. "What?" She pointed at the wrapper. "Pick that up."

"What, the wrapper?" He looked from her to the wrapper, and added something else in German, something that sounded less than complimentary, and again she was reminded of Aleut. It might as well have been Greek; for all she knew, Dieter could have been thanking her for reminding him of his duty as a visitor to the Alaskan Bush. From the look on his face she didn't think so, though.

Patience was a virtue Kate neither had in quantity nor particularly admired. "The rule is, leave it how you found it. You pack it in, you pack it out. We don't leave trash behind on our hunts, Dieter. Pick up the wrapper." She thought it over, and added--he was a paying customer, after all-"Please."

His fair skin flushed a dull red. "You pick it up." Kate didn't move. "I'm your guide," she said flatly, "not the garbage man. Pick it up yourself." Almost casually, she shifted her rifle so that the muzzle was pointing between his feet.

There was a strained silence. Dieter glared at Kate, face turning even redder. Either he didn't like women, didn't like people of color or didn't like anybody who didn't have as much money as he had, or maybe it was all three and nobody told him what to do besides. Take a number, Dieter, she thought.

Eberhard broke the impasse by leaning over and picking up the wrapper.

He stuffed it in his fanny pack and buckled the pack around his waist.

"Those moose don't stay around forever, do they?" he said. "We'd better get going." He cradled his Weatherby in his arms, and its muzzle came to rest pointed in Kate's general direction.

She laughed. He didn't like it, and neither did Dieter. She managed to control her amusement and jerked her chin in the direction of the lake. "Let's take it slow and easy, boys. Quiet as you can, okay?" They took it slow and easy down to the lake, although the strain of carrying fourteen pounds of Merkel at present arms for three hours was beginning to show in Dieter's face and shoulders. He called for a rest often. Eberhard continued to manage his Weatherby like he would a toothpick. They crouched in a stand of diamond willow, peering through the thicket to the water on the other side.

"My feet are getting wet," Dieter said, too loudly.

"Quiet," Kate said, without heat. Dieter was wearing hiking boots that laced as high as the ankle and no higher, not a lot of support over rough ground and no protection at all in the swamps that grew the best moose browse. She had no sympathy for him; George sent out a list of equipment to each of his hunting parties, including specific instructions about footwear. It wasn't her fault if Dieter chose not to follow them, although the hike home, particularly if they got their moose, was not looking like a fun time. The lake was half a mile across, a limpid pool with the barest ripples showing in a silver surface that reflected every needle and leaf and branch of the trees that grew at its edge and the blue sky above. The diamond willow stood twelve feet deep in places around the edge, guaranteeing this lake would be first in the chow line for the local moose.

Since the day before George's bull had been joined by a second. Kate groaned to herself. Dieter would probably want both.

The first bull was directly across from them, broad butt planted in the lake, head buried in a thicket of diamond willow. He was on the scrawny side, though, and his rack was a little droopy around the edges, giving him the look of a character who had just wandered out of a Disney cartoon. About a hundred yards on their left, the second bull, nice and firm and fat, was planted with all four knees deep in water, a hundred percent of his attention focused on systematically stripping the bark from a stand of alders clustered at the edge of the lake, one branch at a time, making a leisurely journey around the clump, which direction was moving him slowly but steadily to dry ground. Perfect.

"Nice," Kate said in a voice barely above a whisper. It was an understatement. She estimated a good nine hundred pounds of meat dressed. "He'll fill up somebody's cache for the winter." Neither one of the bulls looked twitchy, so they might have yet to go into rut, which meant the meat might even be edible.

She looked at Eberhard and Dieter and for once was not disappointed. It was impossible to realize the sheer bulk of Alces gi gas genus Alces, family Cervidae, order Artiodactyla without going into the wild, although there was a stuffed, mounted specimen of this ungulate ruminant antler bearer in the Anchorage International Airport, which made a living out of stopping tourists in their tracks. While ambassador to France, Thomas Jefferson had been laughed at when he spoke of the size and weight of the North American moose, and had had one stuffed and shipped to the French court to prove he wasn't just telling tales.

But this bull was very much alive, living, breathing, the sound of branches snapping between his jaws audible across the still water of the lake. He stood seven feet at the shoulder and measured at least nine feet nose to tail, with great humped shoulders, a long, heavy snout and a broad rack of antlers, seventy, maybe seventy-two inches wide.

He was mature, about six or seven years old from the size and number of his brow tines, four on each side and similar in length and evenly spaced. It was a handsome rack, broadly and evenly palmed, which was just as well since it was destined to grace the wall of the board room at DRG. Kate felt a pang of regret that he was not long for this world and hoped fervently that he had gotten lucky on multiple occasions every year of his adult life and had many offspring scattered between here and Beluga.

"Look at those horns!" Dieter said.

"Quiet," Kate said.

"Are those horns a record?" Dieter demanded in a lower voice. "No," Kate said without expression, but Eberhard gave her a sharp glance. "I'd guess about a seventy-inch spread, maybe a little more.

It's well shaped, though, nice and even."

"It'll look good on the wall of the office," Eberhard said. Dieter was not to be placated. "What's the record?"

"A little over eighty inches, tip to tip," Kate said, "according to Boone and Crockett."

Dieter crouched over his Merkel, hands clenched on the stock, face flushed with excitement, and worked this into centimeters. He swore.

"A third of a meter short of the record."

One of the bull's ears twitched. "Quiet, Dieter. You don't really want to have to chase him through the bush, do you?"

"I wanted a record." Dieter said stubbornly.

Kate, crouching with her elbows on her knees, rifle held easily in her hands, said with great patience, "I don't think George puts any guarantees of record kills in his contracts, Dieter. You want this bull or not?"

Dieter flashed her a look of irritation, and looked back at the bull.

"I want him," he said, and raised the Merkel to his shoulder.

"No, not yet!" Kate said urgently, but it was too late. The Merkel boomed in her ear.

Kate, quite forgetting who she was speaking to, said, "You stupid bastard!" and knocked the barrel of the Merkel upward as it boomed a second time. Dieter leapt to his feet and yelled at her in German, face red with fury. Across the lake, the first bull bolted. As the ringing cleared from Kate's ears she could hear his frantic crashing through the undergrowth growing steadily more distant.

She got to her feet, ignoring Dieter, intent on the second bull, which was her mistake. He raised the Merkel, butt toward her, and pulled back as if to strike. She caught the movement from the corner of her eye and turned on her heel to face him directly, rifle held horizontally across her chest. As the butt came toward her, she used her rifle like Little John's quarterstaff, jerking it sharply upward.

The swift, abrupt contact of barrel to stock jarred the Merkel out of Dieter's hands and it flew over his head and fell into the lake.

Eberhard's rifle was coming around and up. "Don't," Kate said. The bolt of the Remington shot home with a heartening sound.

There was a brief, tense silence, broken only by the frenzied splashing sounds Dieter made as he waded into the lake to search for his beloved Merkel. He found it and pulled it up, covered with muck and bracken.

He wasn't happy, and he said so. Kate didn't move. All of her attention was focused on the big man opposite her with the big rifle in his hands. Eberhard took a quick look at Dieter. He relaxed visibly, standing down, as it were, and actually bent his head, a warrior's recognition of his equal. "I won't underestimate you again," he said.

"Oh please," she said, impatiently. "Spare me the Marine's Hymn." She looked across the lake.

Dieter hadn't missed, but it hadn't been a clean hit, either. The second bull was lying half on the bank, half off it, surrounded by a widening pool of dark red. As she watched, he thrashed feebly, tangling his rack in the alders. She raised the .30-06 to her shoulder, flipping up the sights and bringing the bead to bear on the moose's head. He thrashed once again, before lying back against the bank, flanks heaving. Kate let out a breath, held it and sighted on the moose's left eye. Before the shot finished echoing across the lake, the bull was still.

She ejected the spent shell and picked it up. She was as short on diplomacy as she was on patience and only the fact that George Perry was a sometime employer and longtime friend kept her from giving forth with her unvarnished opinion of Dieter, his character, his ancestors and his associates. She pocketed the shell and shouldered the rifle.

"Let's go," she said and walked around Eberhard in the direction of the dead moose.

There was a mutter of German behind her. She ignored it, forcing her way through the undergrowth. It caught at her braid and her clothes until she managed to shove head and shoulders through the alders lining the edge of the lake where the moose was.

There was nothing to show for Kate's shot but a missing left eye. The Merkel, on the other hand, had taken half a shoulder with it. Broken bones gleamed whitely through red meat, and Kate caught a whiff of something unpleasant. Dieter's slug had clipped an intestine. Goody.

Dieter fought his way through the brush and pounced. The next ten minutes were fully occupied with picture taking, Eberhard producing a small but undoubtedly expensive Leica and shooting a roll of film with Dieter in various poses.

The camera came to the end of the roll and started rewinding. "Okay," Kate said, pulling a knife.

There was a startled exclamation from Dieter and Eberhard almost dropped the camera going for his Weatherby. Kate kept her face straight and extended the knife to Dieter, hilt first. "Time to start skinning." He took the knife automatically. It was a slender eight inch blade with a wickedly sharp edge. "To take the head off?" "Among other things," Kate murmured, and stood and watched him hack off the head with clumsy enthusiasm. It would have been easier for him if she'd produced the hatchet from her pack, but she didn't, and he was panting and covered with blood and moose hair by the time the head broke free from the body. He went to lift it up and was surprised by the weight, as well he should be. The rack alone probably weighed fifty pounds.

Wet to the knees with swamp water, stained to the waist with moose blood, red rage replaced with a pink and gratified pride, Dieter displayed his trophy. Eberhard's attaboys were as flattering as one of his phlegmatic nature could produce. Kate waited. Dieter finally remembered her presence, and turned to hand her the knife.

"Not so fast," she said. "Finish skinning him out."

"What?"

"Finish skinning him out," she repeated. "You'll have to haul him from the water first."

Dieter gaped at her for a moment, then recovered. "We got what we wanted," he said, indicating the head.

"We take the meat, too." He looked baffled. "But--" He looked around at the surrounding brush and brightened. "There are other animals who will eat the meat." Inspired, he stuck one finger in the air like Christ pointing the One Way. "Wolves! There are wolves in Alaska! They will eat the meat!"

Kate shook her head. "Not this moose. You shot this moose, you recover the meat, we'll hang what we can't pack back to camp and come back for it tomorrow."

He was starting to get red again. What the heck, he'd match his shirt.

"We're leaving," he said shortly.

"Fine," she said equably. She turned and surveyed the area. There was a tiny clearing to the left and she squeezed into it, bent a few branches back to let in more light, and sat down with her back to a trunk.

All this was watched in perplexed silence by the two men. "What are you doing?" Dieter said, finally.

She smiled at him. "Taking a nap," she said. "You boys go on, head back to camp." She leaned her head against the bark and closed her eyes. "You get lost, you remember the signal. Three shots, fired a second apart. I'll come running."