“He ain’t yours till you get your tag on ‘im, Alders.”
“I’ll tag ‘im,” Jack said, “don’t worry about that.”
“Not if I see ‘im first, you won’t,” McKlearey snapped.
“I told you men yesterday,” Miller said, “that there’s a whole lot of deer up on that mountain. You get your mind all set on just that one, and you’re liable to come up empty.”
“One of us is bound to get Mm,” Jack said.
“Not necessarily,” Miller said. “There’s a hundred or more trails on that ridge. He could be crossin’ on any one of “em.”
“I’m still gonna wait a few days before I fill my tag,” Jack said.
I went over to see how Sloane was doing. I’m afraid that about two or three more smart remarks from my brother, and I’d have had to get in on it. Jack could be awfully knot-headed stubborn when he got his back up.
“Hey, Cal,” I said, poking my head into his tent. “How’s it going?”
“A little better now, Dan,” he said from his bed. “I think it’s startin’ to settle down finally.”
“Good deal, Cal. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Come on in,” he said, “have a blast.” He giggled. That made me feel better right there.
“Now there’s an idea,” I said. I went on into his tent. He fished out his bottle and we each had a small snort.
“I’ll tell you, buddy,” he said, “it just damn near had me whipped there for a while. About ten this morning it was all I could do to climb up on that horse.”
“You been sleeping straight through?” I asked him.
“Dozing,” he said. “I feel pretty good now. Except I’m hungrier’n hell.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “We couldn’t interest you in lunch.”
“I couldn’t have eaten lunch if you guys had all held guns on me.”
“You about ready to make an appearance?” I asked him.
“Sure thing. Chow about ready?” He sat up, carefully.
“Should be.”
“Good.” He pulled on his boots and got slowly to his feet. “I ain’t about to rush it this time,” he said.
“Good thinking.”
We went out to join the others, and there were the usual wisecracks about Sloane loafing around camp. He laughed and giggled as if nothing were wrong. I could see the relief in Miller’s face. We all felt a helluva lot better. Having a man sick like Cal had been is just like having a heavy weight on top of everybody’s head.
“You’re lookin’ a helluva lot better there, Sullivan,” McKlearey said.
“Who?” I asked him.
“Sullivan there.” He pointed at Cal with his bandaged hand.
I shrugged. Maybe it was some kind of goof-off nickname.
“Come and get it,” Clint said, “or I’ll feed it to the porky.”
“Where is that little bastard anyway?” Jack said as we walked toward the fire.
“Oh, he’s still around,” Miller said. “Just watch where you set.”
We lined up and Clint filled our plates. Then we went over and sat around the fire to eat.
“Hell,” McKlearey said suddenly, staring at Cal. “You ain’t Sullivan.”
“I never said I was.” Sloane giggled through a mouthful of beans.
“Hey, Danny,” McKlearey said, “where the hell is Sullivan?”
“Sullivan who?” I asked.
“Oh, shit, you know Sullivan as well as I do.”
“Sorry, Lou. It doesn’t ring a bell.”
He looked at me closely. “Oh,” he said. “No, I guess it wouldn’t. I guess I was thinkin’ about somebody else.”
“McKlearey,” Jack said, “what the hell are you smokin’ anyway?”
“Well,” Lou said, grinning broadly at him, “I tried a pine-cone this morning.”
“How was it?” Sloane giggled. “Did it blow your mind?”
“Aw, hell no,” Lou said. “Turned it inside-out a couple times, but it didn’t even come close to blowin’ it.”
Who the hell was Sullivan, for Chrissake?
We finished eating and cleaned up our dishes. Then we all sat down around the fire with a drink.
“Same layout for tomorrow as this morning?” Sloane asked.
“Seems to work out pretty well,” Miller said, “and you men all got them posts you’re on pretty well located by now.”
“God, yes,” Jack said. “Let’s not switch around now. I’d get lost sure as hell.”
“Well, then,” Sloane said, polishing off his drink, “if there aren’t gonna be any changes, I think I’ll hit the sack.”
“Christ, Sloane,” Jack said, “you been sleepin’ all day.”
“Man, I need my beauty sleep.” Cal giggled.
“Somehow,” I said, grinning, “I think it’s a little late for that.”
“Never hurts to give it a try,” he said, getting up.
“I’ll call it a day, too,” Stan said.
“What a buncha candy asses,” McKlearey rasped.
“Four o’clock still comes damned early,” Clint growled at the rest of us. It occurred to me that the little old guy had to be up at least a half hour before the rest of us, and he might feel it was bad manners to go to bed before we did.
“Why don’t we all hang it up?” I suggested. “Maybe then you mighty hunters won’t be so damn rum-dum in the morning.”
“I suppose a good night’s sleep wouldn’t kill me,” Jack said. We all got up.
“Man,” Lou said, “this is worse than basic training.”
“But this is fun, Lou,” I said.
“Oh, sure” — he grinned at me —”I’d rather do a little sack-time with some high-class broad.” He winked knowingly at Stan.
Christ! Was he trying to get killed?
Stan’s face tightened up, and he went off to his tent without saying anything.
The rest of us said good night and scattered toward our sacks.
“Sloane seems a lot better,” Jack said after we’d gotten settled.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s a helluva relief.”
“God, it must be awful — gettin’ old like that,” he said suddenly.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked him. “Sloane isn’t old.”
“You know what I mean,” Jack said. “When your lungs or your legs give out like that.”
“Oh, hell. Sloane’s got a lot of miles left in him,” I said. “He’s just a little winded.”
“It gives me the creeps, that’s all.”
“That’s a helluva thing to say.”
“I know, but I can’t help it.”
“What’s eating at you, Jack?” I asked him, sitting up.
“I’m not gettin’ anyplace. It’s like I’m standin’ still.”
“What the hell brought this on?”
“God damn it, I’ve known Sloane since I was a kid. He’s always been able to handle himself and anything that came along. He’s always been the roughest, toughest guy around.”
“Jesus, Jack, it’s not his fault he gets winded up here. It could happen to anybody.”
“That’s just it. A couple more years, and it’s damn likely to happen to me.”
“Oh, bullshit! You’re not carrying the gut Sloane is.”
“It’s not only that,” he said, and his voice had an edge of desperation. “It’s what I was sayin’ before — I’m not gettin’ anyplace. Hell, I’m not any further ahead right now than I was five goddamn years ago. I’ve got a marriage goin’ sour. I’ve got a pissy-ass, two-bit job — hell, I had a better job year before last. Man, I’m just goin’ downhill.”
What the hell could I say? As far as I could see, he was calling it pretty close.
“It’s been just too much booze, too many women, too many different jobs,” he went on. “I’ve just got to dig in, goddammit, I’ve got to!”
“All you have to do is make your mind up, they say.” What an asinine thing to say!
“Christ! I wish I could be like you, Dan, you know that? You know where you’re goin’, what you’re gonna be. Me, I’m just floppin’ around like a fish outa water. I just can’t seem to settle down.”
“Man, it’s not just exactly as if you were over the hill or anything.”
“You know what I mean. I keep hopin’ something will click — you know — make it all snap into place so I can get settled down and get started on something. Maybe this trip will do it.” He stared gloomily at the fire.
He was afraid! Jack had been talking for so long about how he wasn’t afraid of anything that I guess I’d almost come to believe it. Now it came as a kind of shock to me. Jack was afraid. I didn’t know what to say to him.
“You want a belt?” I asked him.
“Yeah. Maybe it’ll help me sleep.”
I fished out my bottle and we each had a quick drink. Then we both sat staring out at the dying fire.
We were still awake when McKlearey started screaming again.
“Sullivan,” he screamed, “look out!” Then there was a lot more I couldn’t understand.
By the time I got untangled from my sleeping bag and got outside the tent, Lou was standing outside, still hollering and waving that goddamn .38 around. I wasn’t just exactly sure how to handle it.