Exploits by Mike Resnick

we turned in, and the next morning Clyde was out laying his traps as soon as the sun came up.
    I asked Kim, our cook, to fix me up some coffee. He came back a couple of minutes later with a pot of tea.
    “I said I wanted coffee,” I told him.
    “Coffee all gone,” he said. “You drink tea.”
    I didn't think no more of it, but when Clyde went out the next morning to bait more traps, I asked for tea, and this time what I got was a pitcher of hot water.
    “Tea all gone too,” explained Kim.
    “Just how much tea did Clyde drink last night?” I asked.
    “Him no drink tea at night. Just whiskey.”
    “Maybe he took it with him this morning,” I suggested.
    “Twenty pounds of it?” replied Kim.
    That did seem like a lot of tea, no matter how eleven o'clockish Clyde might feel, so I got to thinking, and it didn't take me long to figure out that someone was swiping our supplies. And since the bearer and the tracker hadn't gone out in two days and there wasn't no place inside the cave to stash it, I figured it had to be someone else.
    And since there was only one other person who was crazy enough to be wandering around on the mountain in this weather, I decided that things were suddenly looking up for my bank account.
    Clyde returned at sunset, and immediately started warming himself by the fire.
    “How'd it go?” I asked.
    “Oh, he's out there all right,” answered Clyde. “And he's a smart one, too.”
    “How so?”
    “He managed to pick up one of the panda steaks without getting snared. I'll have to camouflage my traps better.”
    We talked for a while, settled down for a hard evening's drinking, and fell asleep just about the time the nightly blizzard started blowing.
    The next morning I waited until Clyde had left, then told Kim to fix me up a dozen sandwiches. While he was busy making them, I got into my panda coat and picked up one of Clyde's auxiliary rifles. When Kim was done, I put the sandwiches into a backpack, and then, as an afterthought, I added twelve bottles of beer, and told him I was going out for a little exercise and to maybe hunt up a grocery store.
    I saw Clyde's footprints heading off to the left, so I turned right and began following a narrow ridge that wound its way down the mountain. I stopped about every half mile, took a sandwich and a beer out of my backpack, and placed them on the snow. After about three miles the path I was on started branching every which way, but that didn't bother me none since all I had to do to get back was turn around and follow my footprints, so I just kept on wandering and setting down sandwiches and beer.
    The snow was right deep, and the altitude wasn't exactly a boon to serious breathing, and by the time I'd emptied my backpack I figured it was getting on toward midafternoon, so I turned around and started heading back to the cave.
    I'd gone about half a mile, and was just turning a corner around a big boulder, when I saw this huge shaggy figure, maybe eight feet high, standing about two hundred yards away with its back to me, eating a sandwich and washing it down with a beer. I figured the safest course was to fire a warning shot, just to kind of get its attention and let it know I was armed, so I pointed the rifle straight up at the sky and pulled the trigger.
    I think I ought to break into my narrative at this point to make a suggestion born of bitter experience: if you ever find yourself on a narrow ledge of a snow-covered mountain in Tibet, firing a .550 Nitro Express into the air probably ain't the smartest course of action available to you.
    When I woke up, I felt kind of constricted. I thought I heard the sounds of digging, but I couldn't move, or even turn my head, to see what was happening. Then, after a couple of minutes had passed, I felt two huge hands grab me by the shoulders and pull me up through the snow, and suddenly I was facing this great big guy who was wearing a shaggy coat made out of sheepskin.
    “All right,” he said, holding me