“McKlearey!” It was Sloane. He had his head out of his tent, and there was a bark to his voice that I hadn’t heard him use very often.
“Huh?” McKlearey blinked and looked around, confused. “What’s up, Cal?”
“You’re havin’ another bad dream,” Sloane said. “Settle down and put that goddamn gun away.”
“What?” Lou looked down and saw the pistol in his hand. “Jeez!” he said. “Sorry, you guys. I musta had another damn nightmare.” He lowered the gun and went back into his tent holding his left hand carefully in front of him to keep from bumping it.
After a minute or so I heard the clink of a bottle in there. What the hell? As long as it kept him quiet.
22
I woke up the next morning before Clint came around to shake us out. I could see the little old guy and Miller standing over by the fire and hear the low murmur of their voices. I got up quietly and went on out of the tent.
“Mornin’, Dan,” Clint said.
“Clint. Cap,” I said.
“Coffee’ll be done in just a bit,” Clint said.
“Ol’ Sarge seems to have got settled down,” Miller said, his low voice rumbling. “At least I didn’t hear him no more last night.”
“I think he’s only good for about one of those a night,” I said.
“Well,” Clint growled, “I don’t know about him, but it’s about all I’m good for.”
“Amen,” I agreed.
“I better go check the horses,” Miller said and went off down toward the corrals.
I finished dressing and asked Clint if I could give him a hand with breakfast.
“Naw, Dan, thanks all the same, but I got ‘er just about ready to go on the fire.”
“OK,” I said and got cleaned up.
“Coffee’s done,” he said as Miller came back up.
“Thanks, Clint,” I said. “It’s a little chilly this morning.”
“Some,” Miller agreed, shaking out his cup.
“I sure hope we don’t get any snow,” I said.
Miller grinned at me. “You got a thing about snow, son?”
“I went on maneuvers two winters in a row in Germany,” I said. “I got a little used up on it.”
“We could get some,” he said, “but it’s not very likely. I wouldn’t lose no sleep over it.”
The three of us had coffee. It was kind of sleepy and quiet — a private sort of time of day. None of us said much. The moon over the top of the peak was very sharp and bright.
“I better roust out the others,” Clint said finally.
“I’ll get ’em,” I said.
“OK. I’ll get breakfast on.”
I woke up the others and then went back down to the fire. The smell of bacon and frying potatoes was very strong, and I realized I was hungry.
Jack came straggling down to the fire, his unlaced boots flopping loosely on his feet and his baseball cap stuffed down on his scrambled hair. “Son of a bitch!” he said, “it’s colder’n a witch’s tit.”
“You keep company with some mighty strange women,” I said, just to be saying something.
Clint doubled over with a wheezy, cackling kind of laugh. Even Miller grinned. I didn’t really think it was all that funny myself.
“Always a smart-ass in the crowd,” Jack growled. He finished dressing and washed up. By then the others had come out.
Sloane looked a lot better, and we all felt relieved about that.
“This cold’ll hold the deer back a little,” Miller said as we started to eat. “They’re liable to be dribblin’ across them ridges most of the mornin’, so I won’t be back up to get you men till ’bout noon or so.” We all nodded. “Clint’ll fix you up with some sandwiches to kinda tide you over.”
“That’s a good idea,” Jack said. “I got a little gaunt yesterday.”
We finished eating and went down to the corral and saddled up by moonlight again. Then we led the horses back up to camp, got our rifles and sandwiches and started up the ridge.
None of us said very much until after we’d dropped Sloane off. Then Stan dropped back to where I was riding and pulled in beside me.
“Did you hear him last night?” he said, his face tight in the moonlight.
“Who?”
“McKlearey.”
“You mean all that screaming? Hell, how could I help it?”
“No,” he said. “I mean before we went to bed. That clever little remark he made — about a ‘high-class woman.'”
“It didn’t mean anything, Stan,” I said. “He was just talking.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come on, Stan. He talks like that all the time. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
“I wish I could believe that,” he said, “but somehow I just can’t. I’m about to go out of my mind over this thing.”
“You’re imagining things.” God, he acted so positive!
“Your post, Professor,” Miller said from up in front of us.
Stan nudged his horse away before I could say anymore.
“He was daydreamin’.” McKlearey chuckled raspingly. “He’s got a young wife with a wild body on her.” He laughed again. Stan didn’t turn around, but his back stiffened.
We rode on up the ridge and dropped off McKlearey.
At the top Miller wished me luck and went on back down. He seemed to have something on his mind — probably the same thing the rest of us did.
I sat on my rock waiting for it to get light and trying not to think about it. I didn’t want it to spoil the hunting for me.
Once again the sky paled and the stars faded and the deer started to move. I saw one pretty nice four-point about seven or so, but I held off. I still thought I might be able to do a little better. The rest were all either does or smaller bucks.
The sun came up.
By eight thirty I began to feel as if that rock was beginning to grow to my tailbone. I’d swung my scope up and down the ravine so many times I think I knew every branch and leaf on the scrubby, waist-high brush, and there must have been trails out in the meadow behind me from my eyeballs. Nothing had gone by for about fifteen minutes, and frankly I was bored. Sometimes that happens when you’re hunting — particularly stand-hunting. Maybe I just don’t have the patience for it.
I stood up and walked down the knob a ways. I wondered if I could see any of the others. I made damn sure the safety was on and then ran the scope on down the ridge. I could see the camp a mile and a half or so away. It looked like a toy carelessly dropped at the edge of the spruces. The beaver pond looked like a small bright dime in the middle of the yellow-green meadow.
I was sure I could make out Clint moving around the fire, and I thought I saw Miller among the horses grazing in the lower meadow. I swung the scope up the ridge a ways.
I could see the white boulder that marked Sloane’s post, but Cal himself was under the upswelling brow of the next hump. I spotted Jack rather quickly. He was standing up, tracking a doe over in the ravine with his rifle.
I searched the next post for a long time but couldn’t locate Stan — which was odd, since his post was all out in plain sight with no obstructions in my line of sight. I thought maybe he was lying under some brush, but that orange jacket of his should have stood out pretty vividly against or even under the yellowing leaves of the sparse brush.
I moved the scope on up to the notch. A lazily rising puff of cigarette smoke pinpointed Lou for me — even though he was the only one of us who wasn’t wearing any kind of bright clothing. He’d rigged up a kind of half-assed blind of limbs and brush and was sprawled out behind it, his rifle lying against a limb. He was only about a hundred and fifty yards down the hill. He raised his arm to his face with a Clint and a flicker of that white bandage. He had a bottle with him. Maybe that’s what had Miller so worried. McKlearey sure didn’t seem to be hunting very hard.
I was about ready to go on back up to my rock-roost when I caught a flash of color in the thick brush between Stan’s post and McKlearey’s notch. I put the scope on it.
It was Stan. He was crawling through the bushes on his hands and knees. His face looked sweaty and very pale. He seemed to be trembling, but I couldn’t be sure.
“What the hell is he up to?” I muttered under my breath. I watched him inch forward for about five minutes. When he got to the edge of the notch, he stopped and lay facedown on the ground for several minutes. He was about fifty yards above and behind McKlearey.