not to mention fry bread."
"Ms. Shugak," Mrs. Baker said, displaying a hitherto unsuspected firmness, "if you are a friend of Amanda's, you know she doesn't keep liquor at the lodge."
"Yes," Kate said meekly. "I mean, no."
"Well, after what we saw this afternoon, I for one would kill for a drink."
"I for two," Mr. Baker added.
They smiled at Kate. If they weren't careful, they were going t o upgrade from stereotypes to real live human beings before the day was over. Kate grinned. "I'd kill for some rational conversation myself. Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you."
But at the door to the Roadhouse, Mr. Baker paused. "Ms. Shugak-"
"Yes, Mr. Baker?"
"That woman at the mine-"
"Yes?"
"Was it our bear that killed her? The one that ran into us on the road?"
Kate briefly considered lying, and quickly discarded the notion. "Probably."
"There was blood on her muzzle."
"Yes."
"That woman's blood."
"Yes."
Mr. and Mrs. Baker exchanged glances. "Will someone go after the bear, try to kill it?"
Kate looked surprised. "Why?"
Mr. Baker blinked. "Well, naturally, I assumed- I've been hunting in Africa, Ms. Shugak. When a lion becomes a man-killer, the only thing to do is to hunt it down and kill it, otherwise it will go on killing men."
Kate sighed. "Mr. Baker, an Alaskan grizzly eats anything that doesn't move out of the way in time, animal, vegetable or mineral. That includes bugs, canned goods, canteens, backpacks and people, as well as any and every other mammal that comes down the pike. Protein is protein. They're a perambulating appetite with a serious advantage in speed and armament. Most of the time they leave us alone. Sometimes they don't."
Mrs. Baker regarded her with a quizzical expression. "It doesn't appear to upset you very much, Ms. Shugak."
Kate shrugged, and repeated what she had said to Dan, this time with more conviction. "Hard to get upset over bears actin g like bears. Comes with the territory. It's not pretty, but then nature often isn't."
The Roadhouse door opened abruptly into the conversation, almost catching Mrs. Baker on the nose and smacking into Kate's reflexively upraised hand. A man somersaulted out of the building to roll down the steps and fetch up flat on his back in a puddle of muddy slush. There was a slurred curse.
The Bakers regarded the outcast for an expressionless moment before Mr. Baker reached for the door, which was swinging slowly closed, and pulled it open with a polite inclination of his head. Mrs. Baker swept through, with Kate bringing up the rear, feeling like a very minor courtier in an exceptionally regal retinue.
Inside, the bar was three deep, there wasn't an empty table in the joint, and the floor was jammed with dancers in Pendleton shirts, Levi's and wafflestompers, the men distinguished from the women only by their beards. On a twenty-four-inch television screen suspended from one corner of the roof Steven Seagal was putting out an oil fire in a series of actions that would have put his ass into orbit on any oil field other than Hollywood's. An enthusiastic audience led by Old Sam Dementieff was improvising new dialogue. Half a dozen older women sat in a circle quilting, mugs of hot buttered rum at their elbows, Auntie Vi firmly guiding the gathered needles in some complicated knot. She looked up, saw Kate and beckoned. Kate deliberately mistook the gesture and waved back airily.
Another crowd stood around two pool tables in the back, the crack of ball on ball muted by the occasional flush of a distant toilet. Jimmy Buffett was on the jukebox, wanting to go where it's warm, accompanied by half a dozen tone-deaf backup singers who felt the same way, including Frank Scully, evidently suffering no guilt feelings whatever at not contributing his share to the state treasury.
The tourists from Pennsylvania were easy to spot. They sat at a table by themselves, attired in matching plaid polyester pantsuits.
Matching Pittsburgh Steelers windbreakers hung over the
"Ms. Shugak," Mrs. Baker said, displaying a hitherto unsuspected firmness, "if you are a friend of Amanda's, you know she doesn't keep liquor at the lodge."
"Yes," Kate said meekly. "I mean, no."
"Well, after what we saw this afternoon, I for one would kill for a drink."
"I for two," Mr. Baker added.
They smiled at Kate. If they weren't careful, they were going t o upgrade from stereotypes to real live human beings before the day was over. Kate grinned. "I'd kill for some rational conversation myself. Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you."
But at the door to the Roadhouse, Mr. Baker paused. "Ms. Shugak-"
"Yes, Mr. Baker?"
"That woman at the mine-"
"Yes?"
"Was it our bear that killed her? The one that ran into us on the road?"
Kate briefly considered lying, and quickly discarded the notion. "Probably."
"There was blood on her muzzle."
"Yes."
"That woman's blood."
"Yes."
Mr. and Mrs. Baker exchanged glances. "Will someone go after the bear, try to kill it?"
Kate looked surprised. "Why?"
Mr. Baker blinked. "Well, naturally, I assumed- I've been hunting in Africa, Ms. Shugak. When a lion becomes a man-killer, the only thing to do is to hunt it down and kill it, otherwise it will go on killing men."
Kate sighed. "Mr. Baker, an Alaskan grizzly eats anything that doesn't move out of the way in time, animal, vegetable or mineral. That includes bugs, canned goods, canteens, backpacks and people, as well as any and every other mammal that comes down the pike. Protein is protein. They're a perambulating appetite with a serious advantage in speed and armament. Most of the time they leave us alone. Sometimes they don't."
Mrs. Baker regarded her with a quizzical expression. "It doesn't appear to upset you very much, Ms. Shugak."
Kate shrugged, and repeated what she had said to Dan, this time with more conviction. "Hard to get upset over bears actin g like bears. Comes with the territory. It's not pretty, but then nature often isn't."
The Roadhouse door opened abruptly into the conversation, almost catching Mrs. Baker on the nose and smacking into Kate's reflexively upraised hand. A man somersaulted out of the building to roll down the steps and fetch up flat on his back in a puddle of muddy slush. There was a slurred curse.
The Bakers regarded the outcast for an expressionless moment before Mr. Baker reached for the door, which was swinging slowly closed, and pulled it open with a polite inclination of his head. Mrs. Baker swept through, with Kate bringing up the rear, feeling like a very minor courtier in an exceptionally regal retinue.
Inside, the bar was three deep, there wasn't an empty table in the joint, and the floor was jammed with dancers in Pendleton shirts, Levi's and wafflestompers, the men distinguished from the women only by their beards. On a twenty-four-inch television screen suspended from one corner of the roof Steven Seagal was putting out an oil fire in a series of actions that would have put his ass into orbit on any oil field other than Hollywood's. An enthusiastic audience led by Old Sam Dementieff was improvising new dialogue. Half a dozen older women sat in a circle quilting, mugs of hot buttered rum at their elbows, Auntie Vi firmly guiding the gathered needles in some complicated knot. She looked up, saw Kate and beckoned. Kate deliberately mistook the gesture and waved back airily.
Another crowd stood around two pool tables in the back, the crack of ball on ball muted by the occasional flush of a distant toilet. Jimmy Buffett was on the jukebox, wanting to go where it's warm, accompanied by half a dozen tone-deaf backup singers who felt the same way, including Frank Scully, evidently suffering no guilt feelings whatever at not contributing his share to the state treasury.
The tourists from Pennsylvania were easy to spot. They sat at a table by themselves, attired in matching plaid polyester pantsuits.
Matching Pittsburgh Steelers windbreakers hung over the
Similar Books
