Читать книгу Forest Patrol - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 6

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Three days later, the twenty-ninth of November, the last of the traps were picked up and cached in various hollow stumps throughout the woods.

His last night in the cabin, too excited to sleep, John sat before a roaring wood fire listening to the snap and crack of the flames and watching the red-hot center of each stove lid expand and contract as the fire alternately leaped high or died a little. Over and over again the same happy thought ran through his mind. Tomorrow he would be a Ranger!

Outside, the wind had shifted from east to west and was carrying big downy snowflakes with it. Already the ground was white with what was to be the first heavy snow of the season. But it seemed a good omen, a clean new world in which to start a new life. It was past midnight when John sought his bunk, and then he slept only fitfully.

He was up again with the first hint of dawn, packing such equipment as he wanted to take with him. The Ranger headquarters at Pine Hill was furnished with everything he needed except blankets and his personal belongings. John folded his two big woollen blankets and put them in the bottom of a wicker pack basket. He placed his tooth brush, shaving kit, towels, wash cloths, and soap on top of them. He filled the rest of the basket with clothing and the few little keep-sakes he had brought to the woods with him. Finally, he threw the lever of his thirty-thirty back to make sure that it was not loaded, and thrust the rifle muzzle down in the side of the basket.

Buckling the belt that held his twenty-two revolver and hunting knife about his waist, he carried the basket outside. Eighteen inches of snow had fallen and a few flakes were still drifting down. For a bit John stood watching it. The woods were always clean, but never more so than when marked with new snow.

He took his snowshoes from a wooden peg, laid them on the snow, and buckled their harnesses about his soft pacs. Shouldering the laden basket, he turned for one last lingering look at the little trapping cabin, and set his face towards the Rasca.

A blue jay scolded from the top of a stub and flew along with him as he strode swiftly up the road. John grinned at the audacious, pert bird. More than once, on the lonely trapping trail, their chattering and scolding had provided him with welcome company.

An hour's travelling brought him to the top of the mountain behind his cabin. Here enough trees had been cut from the lower side of the road to afford an unobstructed view of a seemingly endless expanse of forest and mountain. It was one of the fire look-outs made to supplement the three eighty-foot steel towers in the Rasca district.

John stopped to look. The country was like that he had left in Spatterdown Creek. But somehow it seemed more appealing and friendly. Far to the west, rolling over mountain after mountain, was a great splash of green that was the ten-thousand-acre white pine plantation--pride of the Rasca. Almost directly beneath him was the little village of Pine Hill. His gaze shifted to it, skipped over the twenty houses, the numerous hunters' cars, the store, and the hotel, to the Ranger's headquarters.

That occupied about twenty acres of ground where two creeks came together from Big Kettle River. The freshly-painted, gleaming white house was almost on the edge of one creek. Forty feet to the left of it were two small buildings that contained winter wood and fire tools. A hundred feet beyond them was a long barn that housed the road-building machinery and truck that every Ranger's district must have. The rest of the Rasca Ranger station was merely open, level creek land.

For long minutes John stared at the place where he was to live and work. Then he plunged on down the road and a half hour later was in the village, knocking on the door of the Ranger's house. Fred Cramer welcomed him with a broad grin.

"Hello, Johnny. I was hopin' you'd come in today. I got to leave for the Bandley an' sort of get the lay of the land over there. Come on in."

John followed him into a big, comfortably furnished room in the center of which a box stove glowed cheerfully. The old Ranger rummaged in a cupboard, took from it a sheaf of papers and a bunch of keys.

"Here y'are, Johnny. The keys to the buildin's an' machinery on the place, an' a complete inventory of everythin' else here. There's a big truck an' a little pick-up in the barn. I hung the snowplow on the truck this mornin'. There's about a thousand hunters in the Rasca for the openin' of deer season tomorra. When the head forester gets around he'll give you your badge an' oath of office. But you're a Ranger now."

The old Ranger put on a woollen cap, a short woollen jacket, and heavy driving gloves. He held out his hand.

"Good luck, Johnny. I know I'll find the Rasca in good shape when I come back to take her over next year."

John shook the extended hand, and stood uneasily. Fred Cramer looked at him.

"Was there somethin' else you wanted, Johnny?"

"Aren't you--aren't you going to give me any instructions?"

"Johnny, are you tellin' me how to plant pine over in the Bandley?"

"No. But ..."

"Then I ain't tellin' you how to run the Rasca. She ain't a machine, Johnny. I can't show you how to throw a clutch an' let her go. You'll have to meet each new thing that comes up in your own best way. If I told you how to do it, an' somethin' come up that my tellin' didn't cover, you wouldn't know what to do anyway. Good luck, Johnny."

The old Ranger's little car had scarcely churned out of the snow-covered driveway to enter the main road when John felt hopelessly lost. Now, as never before, the magnitude of the job overwhelmed him. He was the Ranger of the Rasca, and he hadn't the least idea of the first thing to do! Helplessly he looked at the bunch of keys in his hand, and glanced out the window at the cars lined up in front of Pine Hill's little store.

Suddenly he started. Snow on the ground, hunters coming into the Rasca, the keys fitted the machinery on the place, and Fred had hung the snowplow on the big truck this morning! John grinned weakly. That had been the old Ranger's way of telling him to get out and plow the roads. All the hunters coming into the Rasca would not be expert drivers. Some would certainly get stuck in the snow, and it was his job to see that all got safely to wherever they were going and back again. John's confidence began to return.

But it took two to run a snowplow, one to drive the truck and one to handle the plow, and hired help cost money. John looked hesitantly at the telephone on the wall, then walked over to it and took the receiver down.

"Give me the district forester's office," he told the operator. After a few seconds, he heard a voice on the line.

"Mullins speaking." The voice sounded in a hurry.

"This is Belden," John said. "I've just taken the Rasca over from Cramer. I need a man on the snowplow today. Will you okeh it?"

"Sure. Go ahead, Belden. Give your man fifty cents an hour. How are things over there?"

"Eighteen inches of snow and plenty of deer hunters in."

"Can you manage all right? Do you need any help?"

About to say yes, John choked the word back. Rangers ran their own districts.

"I'll get along all right," he said.

"Okeh, Belden. I'll get over to see you when I can, but that might not be until spring. So long."

John gulped when the click on the line told him that the district forester had hung up. There was fine sweat on his temple, and he was in an agony of indecision. He might have had help, and he had chosen to assume full responsibility for taking care of the Rasca! He looked at the keys dangling from his hand, and clamped his jaws grimly. He would do the job he had set out to do. Going outside, he walked over to the store.

The little store was thronged with red-coated, red-hatted, booted men--hunters who had come in for the deer season. But there must be a few residents of Pine Hill in the store. A heavily-muscled, black-haired man wearing a checked shirt and black woollen trousers was sitting on a pickle barrel at one end of the counter. The man seemed to be about thirty years old, although with his head tilted back and his eyes half closed, it was hard to tell. John approached him.

"Do you live here?"

The man opened unfriendly eyes.

"Yeah."

"I'm Belden, the new Ranger," John said. "I'd like to hire someone to help me to run the snowplow. Do you know anyone who might be interested?"

"Since when've they been makin' Rangers out of babies?" the man grunted surlily.

John flushed. "They make a lot of queer things out of babies," he said. "You were once a baby yourself."

Anger leaped in the man's eyes, and he rose to stride away from John as a roar of laughter went through the store. A toothless old man with a straggling gray mustache detached himself from a group about the stove and came forward.

"I'll help ye, Ranger," he offered. "Me an' Fred Cramer run that snowplow many a mile. My name's Bangorst, Lew Bangorst."

John smiled, and gripped the old man's hand.

"Call me John," he said. "Let's go, if you're ready."

With the old man beside him, John went directly from the store to the barn. He ran the big truck outside and went back to lock the door. When he climbed into the driver's seat again, he saw that the old man was shaking. A strange assortment of sounds issued from his mouth, and John looked at him in consternation. But Lew Bangorst was only laughing.

"They make a lot o' queer things out o' babies!" he choked. "You was wunst a baby yourself! Oh, that was a rich one! Poley Harris ain't gonna like it a'tall. He wanted to be Ranger here hisself, an' so did about half the rest o' Pine Hill. Son, you sure stepped in a hornets' nest."

"I've been in hornets' nests before," said John with a confidence he was far from feeling. "A few good slaps put them where they belong."

"Sometimes they sting fust, though," Lew commented drily. "Best take the plow up the road to begin with. We'll go to Hopper Crick, then come back an' go t'other way a spell. Come night we oughta have all roads clean so's none of these here city hunters'll have any work to do, such as pushin' stuck cars outa drifts."

John grinned, and accepted the old woodsman's advice. If Lew Bangorst had run the snowplow before, a lot of time would be saved by doing as he said. John had found out, while working for Fred Cramer, that the man who knew most about a job usually could direct it best. The next time the roads needed plowing, John himself would know the best way to go about it.

Moving slowly, the big truck churned up the road while the broad blade in front swept the snow to one side. The cars that had already travelled the road had worn ruts, but they were haphazard and winding, sometimes hard to stay in, and many cars had run out of them to be hopelessly stuck in the snow on either side. But the big truck made short work of dragging them back onto the cleared road.

They reached Hopper Creek, the north boundary of the Rasca, and turned around to plow back down the other side of the road. Once back in Pine Hill, they started up a side road that Lew indicated. Fewer cars had been here, and they travelled half a mile before sighting the first stalled one.

It was a long black sedan that had plunged into a drift deep enough to heap feathery snow over the radiator. A small man in brown hunting clothes and leather boots was trying vainly to shovel it out. Lew flicked a horny thumb towards him.

"There's one pilgrim as don't aim to walk up in the woods an' get his buck. He's gonna drive his car right up to where they be."

John brought the truck to a stop ten feet behind the stalled car and got out to walk up to the sedan.

"Can I help you?"

The little man turned a worried face whose mild brown eyes were shielded by a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. He smiled ruefully.

"I should think I need some help. I'll be glad to pay you well for getting me out of this snow bank. One does encounter such perplexing situations in the woods, doesn't one?"

Back in the truck, John heard Lew snicker. Obviously lacking the least idea of a solution to his problem, the little man stood in the center of the road gazing confidently at John. Somehow he didn't look like a hunter.

"There won't be any pay," John said. "I'm the Ranger in this district, and it's my job to help people."

"The Ranger!" the little man said delightedly. "I'm so happy to meet you! I'm Professor Arthur Crandall, of Bardette University. I'm not hunting here, but do hope to secure some fine snapshots of wild life. I'm remaining in your district until the first of February, and am hoping you'll take me out into the forests when you go."

With Lew's mocking gaze on him, John was a little embarrassed. But he liked the earnest little man. Anyone not a hunter coming into the Rasca in December was worthy of special consideration anyway. Besides, Professor Crandall had said that he was going to take pictures, and a ranger should know something about photography. Here was his chance to learn.

"I'll be glad to do anything I can for you, Professor," he said. "Meanwhile, suppose we get your car out."

Lew wound their fifteen-foot chain about the front bumper of the truck, and the rear bumper of the car. John put the truck in reverse and backed slowly. The chain tightened, and the car backed easily out of the drift. Professor Crandall waved cheerily at Lew and John as he drove away. A half hour later they saw the sedan parked in front of a hunting lodge farther up the road.

All day, and far into the night, stopping occasionally for gas and once to snatch a hasty meal, they plowed the roads. When John finally ran the truck back into the barn, every muscle ached. Stiff-legged, he walked across the barn floor and fell forward to catch himself on the door jamb. Lew looked unconcernedly past him, and the grin on his face might have been interpreted a dozen different ways. From somewhere in the depths of his clothing he took a huge silver watch and looked at it.

"Twenty minutes of two," he said. "I might's well bunk with you tonight."

"Are all roads open?" John asked thickly. "Can we stop now?"

"Ever' road's open," Lew affirmed. "By the way, if ye'r gonna check camps tomorrow, I reckon I'll ride along. Fred left a rifle here. I'll take that an' you take your'n. We might pick ourselfs up a buck. With such a passel o' hunters in the woods, the deer's gonna be runnin' ever' which way, an' they'll prob'ly be as many crossin' the roads as they'll be in the woods. Both of us can use a buck for winter meat; it helps considdible on the meat bills."

"Sure," John agreed. "We'll do it."

Lew beside him, he walked woodenly over to the house, unlocked the door, staggered across the floor to where he remembered having seen a couch, and fell on it. Dimly he was aware of Lew taking his boots off and throwing a blanket over him. He tried hard to fight sleep. But he had never been so tired before. His eyes closed, and it seemed to him that they were hardly shut before Lew was shaking his shoulder and shouting in his ear.

"Hey! Ranger! Mornin'. We'd best be goin' again."

John opened his eyes to look up into a toothless bearded face. He made an effort to rise, and fell back again. The good smell of frying bacon and boiling coffee tickled his nostrils. With a mighty effort he rose to a sitting position, hot needles sticking into every nerve and muscle in his body. He brushed a hand across his eyes. Before becoming a Ranger, he had thought he knew what hard work was!

"Come on, Son," Lew said. "A couple o' cups o' coffee will make a new man outa you."

John stared wonderingly at the old man, and determinedly got to his feet. If anybody as old as Lew Bangorst could keep going, he could. He washed, combed his hair, and went to the table to drink a steaming mug of hot coffee. As Lew had said, it did take away some of his aches and stiffness. But, he told himself grimly, he had plenty left.

While Lew washed the dishes, John ran the little pick-up truck out of the barn and let the motor warm. Today he had to check camps. That meant collecting a camping fee of twenty-five cents from, and issuing camping permits to, those who had set up tents, counting the men in regular camps, and checking the game they killed, watching to make sure that no camper was cutting valuable wood for fires, keeping an eye out for game law violations, and doing anything else that needed doing.

A rifle in each hand, Lew came trudging out to join him.

"Let 'er roll," he said. "If I was you, I'd get the camps south o' Soonie Crick fust. That's the farthest away you got to go, an' you can work back from there."

John turned south towards Soonie Creek. The road here had been cut in the side of a mountain, with a hundred-foot drop on one side. Lew sat unconcernedly, scanning the opposite hill, only two hundred feet away across a very narrow valley. Suddenly he put a hand on John's sleeve.

"Can you stop 'er?"

John brought the truck to a halt. Lew got out, and began looking towards the opposite hill. John leaned from the window and followed his gaze. The hemlock-covered mountain across the road ran to a sloping nose. At intervals of two hundred feet, hunters were posted along the nose. Farther up the hillside, yelling, pounding on trees, and occasionally shooting off their rifles, at least six men were working slowly towards these watchers. It was a "drive," the men working down the hillside chasing any deer that happened to be on it towards the watchers posted on the nose. When the deer ran by, the watchers would get a chance to shoot.

John and Lew watched the drivers draw up even with them, and go past. Four deer flashed out ahead of the drivers and with white tails hoisted over their backs ran down towards the nose. They disappeared in the hemlocks, but the crashing of rifles told that they had been seen and were being shot at. Again Lew pressed John's sleeve.

"Look!"

"An immense buck walked out of the woods that had just been driven, and came down into the valley. John gasped. Instead of being the customary brown, the buck was a pure and shining white--a perfect albino. One huge antler on the left side of his head lent him a curiously misshapen appearance. Buck deer begin to shed their horns in December, and the albino had already shed his right horn.

John gasped again, in admiration this time. The great albino buck had known perfectly well that he was being hunted. But instead of flushing wildly ahead of the drivers he had lain in his bed until they went by, then calmly walked out of their way. John rested his rifle across the door of the truck.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" There was real terror in Lew's voice.

John pressed the trigger. At the shot, the buck went down to thresh crazily in the snow. In a second he was up again, minus his other horn. Wildly he went bounding back into the shelter of the hemlocks. Lew leaned against the truck. His face was white and beads of sweat dotted his temples.

"Man, I'm glad you missed!" he gasped.

"I didn't miss," John said. "All I wanted to do was shoot his other horn off. I thought a buck smart enough to outwit hunters that way deserves to live. Only bucks are legal game. If the albino has no horns, he won't be shot."

"Man, oh, man!" Lew gasped. "You don't know how close you came to endin' ever'thin'! That was a white buck! Whoever kills a white buck will never kill another deer! White bucks are plumb poison! Bad luck! Oh, but I'm glad you didn't kill him!"

John put the pick-up in low, and glanced sideways at Lew's ashen face.

"But look," he said reassuringly. "I didn't kill him. All I did was shoot his horn off."

The old man shivered.

"It's bad enough jest to see a white buck. If you had kil't that deer, you wouldn't be drivin' this truck right now!"