I'll pay anything for them."
He leered. " Any thing."
She lowered her eyes. "Yes . . . even that."
They laughed together gently, and the fire painted golden patterns on their bodies.
He kicked off his jeans and slipped under the blanket with her.
"Wait a minute," she said, pushing him away. "Before this goes any further, l've got to know something."
"Shoot," he said, cupping his hands around her.
"What's your sign?"
"My what?"
"Your astrological sign."
He nuzzled her shoulder and bit gently. "You're kidding."
"No, I'm not."
"All right. I'm a Taurus."
She shoved him away. "Oh, hell!"
"What's the matter?"
Trying to contain her laughter, and failing, she choked, "I'm a Leo. The book says we're not compatible.''
As he pulled her to him for the complete embrace they had both been working up to, Kelly said, "You know what you can do with your book."
There had not been a legal hunt in the park for more than thirty years. At one time, hunters drawn by lot were allowed to harvest the excess deer, but that practice was stopped before the Second World War, and had never been resumed.
Now trained sharpshooters were brought in whenever the herds had outgrown their grazing range, and the meat was donated to the state hospital.
But the convoy of jeeps, pickup trucks and other off-road vehicles that lined up outside the park's main gate early this morning was filled with anything but sharpshooters. They were a motley bunch, some in
camouflage green some wearing hunters flame orange, one actually dressed in a rumpled business suit. The only thing they had in common were the rifles they carried.
The gate ranger had received instructions to let the hunters come in. But as he watched them drive past, in the dull gray of dawn, he shook his head.
He turned to his partner. "Kelly's not going to like this," he said.
"Some of those guys have got dogs," said the other ranger. "That's illegal."
"The whole thing's illegal. But they're doing it, and we have to let them. Orders."
One party of hunters stopped at the edge of the road, and they planned their routes.
A man driving a battered red Ford pickup leaned out and called to another hunter, who piloted an International Scout, "Hey, Carl, did you bring those extra three-hundred express cartridges?"
"Got 'em right here," said the other man.
Up the mountain, three rifle shots made a string of lonely boom-boom-boom 's which echoed down the valleys for fully half a minute.
Carl said, "Damn it, somebody's already up there shooting."
"They didn't get him, though," said the other man. "One shot, meat. Two shots, maybe meat. Three shots, no meat. That guy missed his first shot and just kept squeezing them off."
Carl said, "Let's get this show on the road. I want to get me a shot at that bastard."
The hunters soon filled the woods. Men and dogs ran in all directions. The dogs were as mixed a bag as the hunters. Some were bird dogs, others were rabbit-trained beagles. One enterprising hunter had actually brought along his wife's poodle.
That nobody was shot by accident in that first hour was a minor miracle, because the nervous men fired at anything that moved.
By the time the sun came up, the mountain sounded as if a small war had broken out on its slopes.
One party paused, cold and tired. They hadn't brought an axe, but there was deadfall wood, and one man knocked down a wooden sign and used it to help start the fire.
The sign's legend read, NO HUNTING.
One man saw a black shadow moving in the underbrush, threw his 30-30 to his shoulder, and fired.
Something thrashed in the thicket, and went still.
Carefully, the hunter advanced. He looked down at what he'd shot.
"Oh, hell," he said.
He had killed someone's big Labrador retriever.
Don Stober said to Kelly, "You're late."
Embarrassed, Kelly said, "I overslept. What the hell's going on?" He looked around the office. "Where's Scottie?"
"He got an early start. He's out there tracking. I just hope some stupid hunter doesn't
He leered. " Any thing."
She lowered her eyes. "Yes . . . even that."
They laughed together gently, and the fire painted golden patterns on their bodies.
He kicked off his jeans and slipped under the blanket with her.
"Wait a minute," she said, pushing him away. "Before this goes any further, l've got to know something."
"Shoot," he said, cupping his hands around her.
"What's your sign?"
"My what?"
"Your astrological sign."
He nuzzled her shoulder and bit gently. "You're kidding."
"No, I'm not."
"All right. I'm a Taurus."
She shoved him away. "Oh, hell!"
"What's the matter?"
Trying to contain her laughter, and failing, she choked, "I'm a Leo. The book says we're not compatible.''
As he pulled her to him for the complete embrace they had both been working up to, Kelly said, "You know what you can do with your book."
There had not been a legal hunt in the park for more than thirty years. At one time, hunters drawn by lot were allowed to harvest the excess deer, but that practice was stopped before the Second World War, and had never been resumed.
Now trained sharpshooters were brought in whenever the herds had outgrown their grazing range, and the meat was donated to the state hospital.
But the convoy of jeeps, pickup trucks and other off-road vehicles that lined up outside the park's main gate early this morning was filled with anything but sharpshooters. They were a motley bunch, some in
camouflage green some wearing hunters flame orange, one actually dressed in a rumpled business suit. The only thing they had in common were the rifles they carried.
The gate ranger had received instructions to let the hunters come in. But as he watched them drive past, in the dull gray of dawn, he shook his head.
He turned to his partner. "Kelly's not going to like this," he said.
"Some of those guys have got dogs," said the other ranger. "That's illegal."
"The whole thing's illegal. But they're doing it, and we have to let them. Orders."
One party of hunters stopped at the edge of the road, and they planned their routes.
A man driving a battered red Ford pickup leaned out and called to another hunter, who piloted an International Scout, "Hey, Carl, did you bring those extra three-hundred express cartridges?"
"Got 'em right here," said the other man.
Up the mountain, three rifle shots made a string of lonely boom-boom-boom 's which echoed down the valleys for fully half a minute.
Carl said, "Damn it, somebody's already up there shooting."
"They didn't get him, though," said the other man. "One shot, meat. Two shots, maybe meat. Three shots, no meat. That guy missed his first shot and just kept squeezing them off."
Carl said, "Let's get this show on the road. I want to get me a shot at that bastard."
The hunters soon filled the woods. Men and dogs ran in all directions. The dogs were as mixed a bag as the hunters. Some were bird dogs, others were rabbit-trained beagles. One enterprising hunter had actually brought along his wife's poodle.
That nobody was shot by accident in that first hour was a minor miracle, because the nervous men fired at anything that moved.
By the time the sun came up, the mountain sounded as if a small war had broken out on its slopes.
One party paused, cold and tired. They hadn't brought an axe, but there was deadfall wood, and one man knocked down a wooden sign and used it to help start the fire.
The sign's legend read, NO HUNTING.
One man saw a black shadow moving in the underbrush, threw his 30-30 to his shoulder, and fired.
Something thrashed in the thicket, and went still.
Carefully, the hunter advanced. He looked down at what he'd shot.
"Oh, hell," he said.
He had killed someone's big Labrador retriever.
Don Stober said to Kelly, "You're late."
Embarrassed, Kelly said, "I overslept. What the hell's going on?" He looked around the office. "Where's Scottie?"
"He got an early start. He's out there tracking. I just hope some stupid hunter doesn't
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