The Country Ahead of Us, the Country Behind by David Guterson Page B
Authors: David Guterson
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bag full of flapjack mix inside my trailpack and lashed it shut. When everything seemed in good order I unzipped one of my side pockets and slipped my fillet knife, buckled inside its leather sheath, behind the elastic band of my underpants.
“Stay cool,” the blond hunter said when I turned around again. “I don’t give a shit what your camp looks like.”
I nodded. The fillet knife punched against my hipbone. The blond hunter cradled his gun in his arms and stared up through the branches of the firs. I considered him, his gun, my knife, the trees, then swiveled once more around on my bare heels and unlashed my trailpack. I searched through my things for a dry pair of socks, and when it seemed right I dropped the fillet knife into a side pocket.
Tumpline came weaving into camp between the tree trunks. When he reached his pack he picked up the rifle that lay across it and pointed it at me.
“I didn’t want to have to do this,” he said evenly.
“Then don’t,” the blond one answered him. “Put that thing down.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to, Private Fields?”
“Didn’t I tell you about his brains?” Fields asked me.
Tumpline clicked off his safety, then pulled back the actionon the rifle. His eyes seemed to have retracted even deeper into their sockets, like things at the backs of two caves. “You see this, asshole? This is a Mauser. It carries a magnum cartridge. One hundred-eighty-grain bullets. It could tear a hole where your face is, Big Guy.”
The fat one had come back to the real world. He was staring at me from almost directly behind Tumpline, still clinging to my rod.
My throat wasn’t working. Tumpline’s index finger lay against the trigger; the Mauser was leveled at my chest. I had to stare at Tumpline, into his eyes—it seemed as if that was all that kept him from shooting me. Finally, I dropped my dry pair of socks. I locked my knees—my bladder felt ready to give up its load—and held my hands up over my head because I didn’t know what else to do. The balled socks rolled over the dirt like a baseball.
“Don’t shoot!” I said. I sounded to myself like someone who had just had their tonsils removed.
Lane was crying now, without making any noises except ones I could hear, the way he did at night sometimes for no immediate reason. I wanted to say something, anything, it was up to me to tell him what he needed to hear, but my throat had seized up and the blue barrel of the Mauser with Tumpline behind it held me frozen in place while the fat hunter gaped and the blond one, Fields, chewed.
“It ain’t loaded,” Fields said calmly. “Nobody hikes with a loaded rifle.”
“How do you know?” Tumpline swung the Mauser around.
“Pick up your socks,” Fields said.
I dropped my hands. The Mauser swung back—I flinched, but nothing happened. Finally, Tumpline broke into a grinand set the butt of his rifle on the ground. Nobody hikes with a loaded rifle , I told myself. I picked up the balled socks and sat down by the firepit, but my fingers couldn’t figure out how to put the socks on. It didn’t matter—nothing mattered. Lane cried—it was something he did with his face, soundless, undetectable to the three hunters—and Tumpline balanced his Mauser against one of the tent lines, barrel up.
“What a fucked-up waste of time,” Fields muttered to the sky.
Tumpline only pulled at his bottom lip. “Is that yours?” he said to the fat hunter.
The fat one looked at my rod as if he had never seen it before. “Me?” he asked.
“Is it yours?”
“No.”
“Then put it down.”
He did, sheepishly. Then he stood with his hands at the small of his back.
Tumpline swung his pack up now. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “There’s nothing for us here, Private Fields.” He pulled the leather tumpline over the top of his head and anchored it just above his eyes, then picked up the Mauser.
“There is nothing here,” he repeated, as if it meant
“Stay cool,” the blond hunter said when I turned around again. “I don’t give a shit what your camp looks like.”
I nodded. The fillet knife punched against my hipbone. The blond hunter cradled his gun in his arms and stared up through the branches of the firs. I considered him, his gun, my knife, the trees, then swiveled once more around on my bare heels and unlashed my trailpack. I searched through my things for a dry pair of socks, and when it seemed right I dropped the fillet knife into a side pocket.
Tumpline came weaving into camp between the tree trunks. When he reached his pack he picked up the rifle that lay across it and pointed it at me.
“I didn’t want to have to do this,” he said evenly.
“Then don’t,” the blond one answered him. “Put that thing down.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to, Private Fields?”
“Didn’t I tell you about his brains?” Fields asked me.
Tumpline clicked off his safety, then pulled back the actionon the rifle. His eyes seemed to have retracted even deeper into their sockets, like things at the backs of two caves. “You see this, asshole? This is a Mauser. It carries a magnum cartridge. One hundred-eighty-grain bullets. It could tear a hole where your face is, Big Guy.”
The fat one had come back to the real world. He was staring at me from almost directly behind Tumpline, still clinging to my rod.
My throat wasn’t working. Tumpline’s index finger lay against the trigger; the Mauser was leveled at my chest. I had to stare at Tumpline, into his eyes—it seemed as if that was all that kept him from shooting me. Finally, I dropped my dry pair of socks. I locked my knees—my bladder felt ready to give up its load—and held my hands up over my head because I didn’t know what else to do. The balled socks rolled over the dirt like a baseball.
“Don’t shoot!” I said. I sounded to myself like someone who had just had their tonsils removed.
Lane was crying now, without making any noises except ones I could hear, the way he did at night sometimes for no immediate reason. I wanted to say something, anything, it was up to me to tell him what he needed to hear, but my throat had seized up and the blue barrel of the Mauser with Tumpline behind it held me frozen in place while the fat hunter gaped and the blond one, Fields, chewed.
“It ain’t loaded,” Fields said calmly. “Nobody hikes with a loaded rifle.”
“How do you know?” Tumpline swung the Mauser around.
“Pick up your socks,” Fields said.
I dropped my hands. The Mauser swung back—I flinched, but nothing happened. Finally, Tumpline broke into a grinand set the butt of his rifle on the ground. Nobody hikes with a loaded rifle , I told myself. I picked up the balled socks and sat down by the firepit, but my fingers couldn’t figure out how to put the socks on. It didn’t matter—nothing mattered. Lane cried—it was something he did with his face, soundless, undetectable to the three hunters—and Tumpline balanced his Mauser against one of the tent lines, barrel up.
“What a fucked-up waste of time,” Fields muttered to the sky.
Tumpline only pulled at his bottom lip. “Is that yours?” he said to the fat hunter.
The fat one looked at my rod as if he had never seen it before. “Me?” he asked.
“Is it yours?”
“No.”
“Then put it down.”
He did, sheepishly. Then he stood with his hands at the small of his back.
Tumpline swung his pack up now. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “There’s nothing for us here, Private Fields.” He pulled the leather tumpline over the top of his head and anchored it just above his eyes, then picked up the Mauser.
“There is nothing here,” he repeated, as if it meant
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