every morning, puffing out the rich odor of the dark brew. The sun climbed and birds sang as though nothing odd were happening.
He stared at her with speculation before turning to leave. “You thought of something last night, something you didn’t tell me. I figure it’s time to end the shutout.”
Uneasiness weighed like a stone in Annie’s belly.
At the edge of the woods, Sam turned back. “The others will be getting up. We’ll talk later. In the canoe. Be ready.”
TWELVE
Sam found a hollow space below a tangle of roots where he stashed the small corpse. A handful of beach rocks hid it from sight. Not that it mattered to the chipmunk, but Frank wouldn’t happen on it. If only Sam could rid himself as easily of the entire problem.
His return path circled to the rear of the encampment toward the latrine. He tripped and nearly crashed head on into a tree. “Dammit to hell!”
He aimed a kick at the offending object, but stopped when he realized what it was.
A trap.
A crude trap rigged from twigs and fine wire. A simple spring snare. Just the right size to trap a chipmunk. His left hand closed around the rough sticks, tighter, until the bark bit into his palm. This was deliberate.
Deliberately planned. Deliberately cruel.
Like steam in a locomotive, pressure built inside him. What the hell was someone doing this for? For kicks? To screw up his life even more than it was? He discarded that petty notion as soon as his brain conjured it. Nevertheless, if this week went all to hell, he’d have nothing. Not even the Scotch he’d already tried to dive to the bottom of. Lucky he didn’t have a fifth with him. He might be tempted.
Damn, he needed action, not a damned mystery. Generally guides avoided use of the radio except in emergencies. Folks felt more a part of the wilderness that way. But if he figured out who had the sick sense of humor, he’d radio Boomer to come yank the son of a bitch.
He wrestled with the idea of clearing the air, radioing his brother with the problem. What could Ben do? Zip. Until they reached the caretaker, they had no choice but to continue. Hell. He ought to be able to handle the matter. He was the guide. He would prove he could do it. Alone.
He kicked apart the snare, stomped on it, spreading the fresh scent of loam. He stuffed the wire in his pocket and flung the sticks farther into the woods. Shaking his head, he proceeded to the latrine. Who among them but him had a clue how to fashion a spring snare?
On his way back, an outcry in the camp sent him running.
Sam found the others around the coolers. “What’s up?”
“Something got into the food last night.” From the littered ground, Nora picked up a shredded plastic bag.
One of their two coolers lay on its back, the lid a drawbridge for any avaricious invaders wanting to plunder its contents. Hunks of marinated beef formed a lopsided triangle in the middle of milk-soaked grass. Other perishables either were shredded, gnawed or gone. Smells of spoiling food tainted the aroma of coffee.
Earlier, when desperation for sustenance had him pawing through the nearer cooler, he’d been too groggy to notice. Annie hadn’t been close enough to see or smell their new disaster. Then she’d found the headless chipmunk.
“Dumped this and made off with the goods.” Carl righted the emptied cooler. “What do you think? A bear?”
Frank fingered the cooler’s latch. “Raccoons are clever little guys. Raccoons could open this.” Trust in his eyes, he gazed up at Sam. “Couldn’t they, Sam?”
Hell. Everyone was looking to him for answers, for leadership. All this before he was fully awake.
A coffee mug was shoved in his hand. The aroma permeated his fog and he gulped greedily. Damned good. Plenty of sugar. In a minute the caffeine would kick him in the head. “Thanks.”
Annie nodded, her mouth grim. She folded her arms and waited. She was counting on him too. Damn.
He swallowed more coffee, then cleared his
He stared at her with speculation before turning to leave. “You thought of something last night, something you didn’t tell me. I figure it’s time to end the shutout.”
Uneasiness weighed like a stone in Annie’s belly.
At the edge of the woods, Sam turned back. “The others will be getting up. We’ll talk later. In the canoe. Be ready.”
TWELVE
Sam found a hollow space below a tangle of roots where he stashed the small corpse. A handful of beach rocks hid it from sight. Not that it mattered to the chipmunk, but Frank wouldn’t happen on it. If only Sam could rid himself as easily of the entire problem.
His return path circled to the rear of the encampment toward the latrine. He tripped and nearly crashed head on into a tree. “Dammit to hell!”
He aimed a kick at the offending object, but stopped when he realized what it was.
A trap.
A crude trap rigged from twigs and fine wire. A simple spring snare. Just the right size to trap a chipmunk. His left hand closed around the rough sticks, tighter, until the bark bit into his palm. This was deliberate.
Deliberately planned. Deliberately cruel.
Like steam in a locomotive, pressure built inside him. What the hell was someone doing this for? For kicks? To screw up his life even more than it was? He discarded that petty notion as soon as his brain conjured it. Nevertheless, if this week went all to hell, he’d have nothing. Not even the Scotch he’d already tried to dive to the bottom of. Lucky he didn’t have a fifth with him. He might be tempted.
Damn, he needed action, not a damned mystery. Generally guides avoided use of the radio except in emergencies. Folks felt more a part of the wilderness that way. But if he figured out who had the sick sense of humor, he’d radio Boomer to come yank the son of a bitch.
He wrestled with the idea of clearing the air, radioing his brother with the problem. What could Ben do? Zip. Until they reached the caretaker, they had no choice but to continue. Hell. He ought to be able to handle the matter. He was the guide. He would prove he could do it. Alone.
He kicked apart the snare, stomped on it, spreading the fresh scent of loam. He stuffed the wire in his pocket and flung the sticks farther into the woods. Shaking his head, he proceeded to the latrine. Who among them but him had a clue how to fashion a spring snare?
On his way back, an outcry in the camp sent him running.
Sam found the others around the coolers. “What’s up?”
“Something got into the food last night.” From the littered ground, Nora picked up a shredded plastic bag.
One of their two coolers lay on its back, the lid a drawbridge for any avaricious invaders wanting to plunder its contents. Hunks of marinated beef formed a lopsided triangle in the middle of milk-soaked grass. Other perishables either were shredded, gnawed or gone. Smells of spoiling food tainted the aroma of coffee.
Earlier, when desperation for sustenance had him pawing through the nearer cooler, he’d been too groggy to notice. Annie hadn’t been close enough to see or smell their new disaster. Then she’d found the headless chipmunk.
“Dumped this and made off with the goods.” Carl righted the emptied cooler. “What do you think? A bear?”
Frank fingered the cooler’s latch. “Raccoons are clever little guys. Raccoons could open this.” Trust in his eyes, he gazed up at Sam. “Couldn’t they, Sam?”
Hell. Everyone was looking to him for answers, for leadership. All this before he was fully awake.
A coffee mug was shoved in his hand. The aroma permeated his fog and he gulped greedily. Damned good. Plenty of sugar. In a minute the caffeine would kick him in the head. “Thanks.”
Annie nodded, her mouth grim. She folded her arms and waited. She was counting on him too. Damn.
He swallowed more coffee, then cleared his
Similar Books
