Читать книгу A Nose for Trouble - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 4

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Tom was up with the dawn, and breakfasted on the remaining trout and some soda biscuits. Then he saddled Pete and started up the trail that led away from the far end of the clearing. He wanted to waste no time in seeing Bill Tolliver.

After a stiff hour's climb they came out on top of the mountain, and Tom stopped to let the pinto breathe.

The year before he had left the mountains, a forest fire which he had helped to fight had roared through here. It had destroyed everything in its path, even swallowing seventy-foot pines at one gulp. Now the burn was growing back up. Huckleberry brush grew profusely, with here and there a patch of fast-growing aspens scattered among it. Pete flicked his ears forward and looked intently toward a patch of aspens. Tom followed the horse's gaze.

He thought at first that he was looking at a stump, one of many charred souvenirs left by the fire. But it was an odd-looking stump. Tom rode a bit nearer, although the pinto seemed reluctant, and was blowing nervously through his nostrils.

It was not a stump, but a great black boar with a massive chest, lean paunch, and legs built for speed. Long tushes protruded from its mouth, and its little pig eyes stared steadily at the man on the horse. Then, so suddenly that Tom could not be sure his eyes followed it at all, the monster faded into the underbrush.

Tom walked Pete slowly forward. He had been born in the mountains, and in earliest boyhood had learned that most wild animals would flee at the sight of a man. But this thing, instead of running, had faced him. In fact, it had seemed almost on the verge of charging him. Tom tried to fight back the cold chill that traveled up his spine. The boar was a tremendous creature, as big as the black bears that roamed the mountains, and much more deadly.

Still shaken, Tom dismounted where the creature had stood. He found wide, cloven hoof marks in the soft earth, the biggest he had ever seen. When he rose, he looked nervously about in spite of himself. An unarmed man on foot wouldn't stand a chance should such a thing attack him. Fighting back the coldness in the pit of his stomach, Tom remounted and put Pete to a swift trot that carried them across the burn and among the trees at the other side.

As soon as he was again among trees he felt more at ease, and slowed the pinto to a walk. Probably the boar wouldn't have charged him at all; few wild beasts deliberately attacked men. Maybe he had surprised it, and the creature was waiting to see what he would do before making its own escape. That must have been the answer.

The trail angled among big pines, down the sloping face of the mountain. Far below, Tom saw another clearing and heard hounds that had already scented them begin to bay. He let Pete trot toward the Tolliver clearing, his mind at rest.

He had always liked old Bill Tolliver. A typical mountain man, wise in the ways of the woods, Bill had taught Tom much of what he knew, including marksmanship. Bill was a dead shot. It was he who had bought a single box of twenty cartridges for his big rifle, and killed eighteen deer and two bears with them. Store-bought ammunition cost too much to waste, he had explained modestly. Tom smiled at the recollection.

As they reached the clearing at the bottom of the mountain, Bill's hound pack surged about them. Tom saw Twig, the aging leader of Bill's pack, and Jerry. The rest were dogs Tom had never seen before. That was not surprising. The bears and cats that old Bill liked to hunt were fierce fighters that could work damage to any pack of hounds. In five years most hunters of such game had an entirely new pack.

Then Tom saw another dog that had leisurely followed the rest.

It was a large, tawny hound, smoke-gray in color. One of its dangling ears had been ripped and was almost healed. Tom looked wonderingly at it. Its outward conformation was similar to the Plott hounds that made up old Bill's pack, but it was not a Plott hound. Its jowls were very heavy, and overhung the lower jaw in leathery folds. On the sad-looking face, tan relieved the hound's smoky-gray color.

The hounds that had already snuffled around the pinto's feet drifted slowly back toward the Tolliver cabin. Only the sad-looking dog remained. Tom dismounted.

"Hi, Smoky," he said gravely, snapping his fingers.

The smoke-colored hound trotted up and snuffled him over. He raised his head, and to Tom's surprise, reared to be petted. Wagging his tail, he pushed his nose toward Tom's face. Grasping him by the front legs, Tom set the big dog gently down on the grass.

"You like me, eh?" he laughed.

As he led the pinto toward the cabin, the rest of the hounds rose to bay at them, and two growled forward. The smoke-colored dog padded contentedly by Tom's side. When he came near, the two belligerent hounds drew back. Tom grinned. Obviously the big hound was not one to pick fights, but just as plainly he was able to hold his own. Then Tom looked up at the man who stood in the doorway.

Bill Tolliver was short and broad, stocky without being fat. A mane of pure white hair crowned his head and a flowing white beard fell over his barrel chest. But when he came forward his walk was the easy, light stride of a boy. He extended an immense hand.

"Tawm Rainse!"

"Hello, Bill."

"It's good to see you, boy! It's been a long time. Say! Ain't that Fred Larsen's outlaw you're ridin'?"

"Pete's no outlaw," Tom grinned. "He just had to find the right owner."

"Is that so?" Bill Tolliver rumbled enviously. "I'd have bought the critter myself, but I couldn't stay on him. Come along, boy. Mother Tolliver and Elaine will be right glad to see you."

"Elaine?"

"Yancey's woman," Tolliver explained. "Yancey was killed by a fallin' tree, two years back. Elaine and baby Sue are bidin' here with us."

Tom nodded silently, knowing that words were futile. Yancey had been Bill's only son.

They turned the black and white pinto into the corral with Bill Tolliver's horses. The smoke-colored hound followed. As they walked back toward the house, the dog wagged his tail at a golden-haired little girl who was playing in the yard. The toddler reached out, took both the dog's ears in her fists, and yanked. The dog wagged his tail harder, and made no effort to pull away from the youngster.

"Where'd you get the good-natured hound, Bill?" Tom asked. "And what is he?"

"Ain't he the dog?" Bill Tolliver said. "They had a bloodhound in here 'bout a year or so past. Tryin' to track down a man, they was. They never caught him, but that bloodhound sure left his own tracks behind. Out of old Twig, that Smoky dog is."

"Then his name is Smoky?"

"Sure. What else could you call him with a color like that?"

"He any good?"

"He's smart, and he's got a nose second to none, but he ain't no pack dog. Got his own ideas about what he'll do and won't do. Friendly cuss with humans, but he can lick any two dogs in the pack. Reckon I'll have to get rid of him."

"Sell him to me."

"I'll give him to you, Tawm, if you don't aim to keep but one dog. Smoky won't run with any others. And dogged if I know whether he's a game hound or a man-hunter. He can't seem to make up his mind."

"I'll find out," Tom told him. "It's a deal."

Bill Tolliver pushed the door open and Tom followed him into the neat cabin. Yancey Tolliver's pretty widow, Elaine, turned around and smiled shyly. Bill's booming voice filled the cabin.

"Here's Tawm Rainse, Mother! Got in last night."

Mrs. Tolliver, a pleasant, graying woman, looked up from the stove.

"Land sakes, young'un, let me look at you! I swear to goodness, the mountains have been plumb lonesome 'thout a Rainse around! Dinner will be on in a few minutes."

"But I had a big breakfast," Tom protested.

"I bet 'twas a man's breakfast," Mrs. Tolliver sniffed. "Trout and biscuits, or I miss my guess. Anyhow, I've yet to see the man who can't eat two meals runnin'. Sit tight."

The smoke-colored dog appeared in the doorway, and turned his head expectantly. Sue Tolliver toddled across the porch, fastened both hands in the skin of the big hound's neck, and held tightly. Slowly, careful not to upset the little girl, Smoky walked into the cabin. Sue hung on until she was well inside, then released the dog and climbed up on a low bench.

His duty done, Smoky padded across the floor to throw himself at Tom's feet. He wagged his tail a couple of times, gave a great sigh, and went to sleep.

Mrs. Tolliver laughed. "He likes you, Tom."

"Good thing," her husband observed. "He's Tawm's dog now. I gave Smoky to him."

"Well, I'm glad he's going to somebody who knows a good hound from a broody hen. Smoky's my favorite among all the dogs, Tom, even if he doesn't run with the pack. Now stand aside, you men, and let us get some food on. Everything is just about ready."

She and Elaine loaded the table with a venison roast, fluffy mashed potatoes, green peas from the Tollivers' garden, feather-light biscuits with golden butter and wild honey. On top of the oven a big, steamy-crusted strawberry pie was waiting. Mrs. Tolliver filled the cups with smoking hot coffee, and put the pot back on the stove.

"All right, young'un, sit and eat," she told Tom. "And let me see you eat like you should."

As they sat down, little Sue left her bench, walked over to her grandfather, and climbed into his lap. Tom watched them. Like most mountaineers, Bill Tolliver was quiet and closemouthed, not given to showing his emotions. But now there seemed to be something especially tender about him, as he curled his great arm about his tiny granddaughter, something that went very deep. Sue, Tom decided, had taken Yancey's place. She had filled the aching void which the death of his son had left in the old man.

Tolliver felt Tom's eyes on him, glanced up, then looked down at his granddaughter's silky head.

"Cute little tyke, ain't she?" he mumbled in embarrassment. "Well, Tawm, how'd you find everythin' at Rainse's Creek? Old place look familiar?"

"Not exactly," Tom replied. "Somebody's been using the cabin—still is, by the looks of things."

The news was obviously a surprise to all of them.

"Wonder who it is?" asked Mrs. Tolliver. "If 'twas any of the mountain folks, we'd a-known it. Who could it be, Bill?"

The old man shook his head. "I dunno, Mother. I ain't been over thataway in some time."

He did not look at Tom as he spoke. Maybe he knew more than he admitted, but didn't want to talk in front of the women, Tom reflected. He'd wait until they were alone.

He gave himself over to the venison roast, filled his plate again, and ate a second helping. When Mrs. Tolliver placed a huge wedge of pie beside him, he ate that too. Then he pushed himself back with a contented sigh.

"Gosh! That was good. Didn't know I was so hungry."

"You had enough?" Mrs. Tolliver inquired solicitously.

"All I can eat, and then some! But I will take another cup of coffee."

"Say, Bill," he went on, passing his cup, "when I crossed the burn above our cabin this morning, I ran across a wild boar as big as sin and twice as ugly."

"Did he tackle you?"

"No, but for a minute I thought he was going to."

"We call him the Black Devil," Bill Tolliver said, "and there's no tellin' where he come from. Genuine Rooshian wild boar he is, and smarter'n any six foxes in the mountains. I'm just waitin' for a shot at him."

"If he's bad, why don't you get him?"

"I tried, and it cost me three good hounds. Some of the others have tried, too. We don't get him 'cause we can't. He's too smart for us. Only reason you got a sight of him today, I swear, was on account he knew you didn't have a rifle."

"Suppose you two go outside and hunt your boars on the porch," Mrs. Tolliver interrupted good-naturedly. "We've got work to do."

"I'm pretty good with dishes—" Tom offered.

Mrs. Tolliver sniffed. "As if I'd let a man mess around my kitchen! Go along now, and talk your hearts out."

Bill Tolliver pushed back his chair. "When Mother speaks, it's best to pay heed. Come on, Tawm."

As they went out on the porch, Smoky got up and padded behind them. When they sat on the step, the dog flopped down beside Tom, his nose hanging over the edge so that his dangling ears nearly reached the ground.

"Looks like you got yourself a dog, Tawm, and the dog sure figures he's got him a man."

"Yeah," Tom replied absently, scratching Smoky's ears. "Bill, what's going on around here?"

"I knew you'd smelled somethin'," Bill replied, his face darkening, "and you've got a right to know." He was silent a moment, gazing off across the clearing.

"The law's part of it. They've upped and made a lot of foolish rules 'bout what a man can and can't shoot, and when he can do it. Then they sent their fool game warden in here to make the rules stick. Me, I been shootin' what I pleased for the past fifty years, and I aim to keep right on. I like to eat regular. Always did."

"What else?" Tom asked quietly.

Bill was silent again, groping for words. Smoky wrinkled his nose and interestedly followed the progress of a black beetle along the ground.

"Well, besides that piddlin' little game warden, we got more things the mountains can do without. You know I ain't never wasted game. But there are some as do."

"Who are they?"

"I don't know right off," the old man admitted. "Whoever heads the thing calls himself the Black Elk. Seems like a bunch of 'em are either shootin' or buyin' game, or both, and packin' it out to sell to hotels and such-like. And it ain't healthy to be too nosy about what's goin' on."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothin'," Bill Tolliver grunted. "I ain't scared of this Black Elk, like some folks. But I still figure a body's business is his own, even if I don't like the way this bunch is doin' things. Tawm, I found where they kil't five deer at one salt lick, and three of 'em was does."

"Why don't you tell this game warden about it?"

"Help a game warden? I druther cut off my right arm. Nope! I'll just mind my own business, same as I always have."

"How are the rest of the mountain folks taking it?"

"Some are scared, like I said, but most are sittin' tight. They dunno what to make of anythin', what with these new rules, and this here Black Elk bustin' 'em by the hayrick load."

Tom was silent, knowing the uselessness of trying to pump more information out of a mountain man than he was willing to give. And Bill had talked a lot, for him. The whole atmosphere in the mountains seemed one of fear and worry. So game law had come among the mountaineers. They had been told that their hunting grounds, used by themselves and their fathers and grandfathers before them, were no longer free. However, few of the mountain people had ever taken more game than they could use, and there had always been plenty. Now some unknown man or men, who were killing for markets, had moved in. Knowing that the mountaineers would resent indiscriminate slaughter, this Black Elk, as he called himself, had apparently resorted to threats.

"There's got to be a showdown, Bill," Tom said at last. "This can't keep up."

"I'll be here when it comes," the old man answered calmly. "You stayin' in the mountains for long?"

"I wasn't going to, but it looks as though things might get right exciting. I'll stick around for a while."

"Glad to hear it, boy. I'll get your rifle and a fishin' rod for you. Rest of your stuff I'll tote in on a pack horse next time I happen by. Got enough grub?"

"Enough for now, Bill. And thanks for everything. Guess I'll head back for home."

While Bill was getting his rifle and rod, Tom sat where he was, thinking hard. He was disturbed by what the old man had told him, and confused by what more he could guess. Although Bill hadn't said so, he suspected that some of the mountaineers must be working with this mysterious Black Elk. Outsiders would need men who knew where game was most plentiful. Who could they be? Did Bill know?

When the old man reappeared, Mrs. Tolliver followed him out of the door.

"Land sakes, young'un, you haven't even told us what you've been doing all these years," she protested. "You can't go now."

"I'll be back, Mother," Tom promised. "It'll be a good excuse for a free meal."

Bill handed him his rifle, a handful of cartridges, and his fishing rod, and walked out to the corral with him. Smoky followed them.

"I dunno who's been usin' your cabin, Tawm," he warned, "but you'd best find out. That Smoky dog will smell anybody comin', but watch out that he don't wag his fool tail off welcomin' strangers!"

Smoky raised his head at the sound of his name. His drooping jowls made his face look so sad that Tom burst out laughing.

"You've hurt his feelings, Bill. Now he'll be glad to leave you."

"Mebbe so," Bill grinned, "but I doubt he'll follow you without you got him on a lead. I'll fetch one."

Bill disappeared into the barn, and Tom walked along the corral to the gate. On his side of the fence the black and white pinto detached himself from the herd and followed eagerly. When Tom entered the pasture the trim little horse came up to him at once, and stood quietly while he was being saddled. Tom led him out, and was loading the rifle when Bill Tolliver brought Smoky up on a fifteen-foot hank of rope. He handed the end of the leash to Tom.

"There you are, boy. Come again when you take a notion. We're glad to see you any time."

"Thanks, Bill. I'll ease by now and again."

Tom slung the rifle and rod across the saddle, mounted, and swung Pete toward the trail, letting the reins hang slack. Pete trotted willingly along, and Tom nodded in satisfaction. The black and white pinto was an intelligent horse. He had been over the trail from the Rainse clearing to the Tollivers' only once, but he seemed to sense that they were returning the same way, and asked no guidance.

For a moment Smoky hung back against the leash, looking questioningly over his shoulder. Tom reined Pete to a halt and spoke to the big dog.

"Come on, boy. Don't be worried. You're going with me."

The tawny hound looked at him, wagged his tail, and then trotted contentedly beside Pete.

Tom looked appraisingly at him. Dogs were as different as humans in their reactions, and Smoky was definitely a rugged individualist. He wouldn't run with the pack, and he insisted on having his rights respected. But such dogs often turned out to be the finest possible companions to those who wanted only one dog. Smoky had already demonstrated his willingness to meet any advance more than halfway, and he seemed to have taken more than a casual liking to Tom.

When they entered the forest, Pete began to climb without hesitation. He picked a sure way among the boulders, easing his pace where the going was steepest, so he would not wind himself. Smoky ranged ahead at the end of the leash, snuffling here and there, but always maintaining his distance so that he did not interfere with the horse. Obviously the tawny hound was used to running with horses. Satisfied, Tom gave himself up to his thoughts.

He remembered these mountains as a friendly place where no one ever had to carry a gun unless he was hunting. Of course there had always been the usual quota of wild and unruly natives, but they were seldom vicious. Now, apparently, all that was changed. The mountains were in the grip of some gang or other, and even old Bill Tolliver trod mighty warily. Who was the Black Elk? Who was helping him? What were they doing with the wild life they slaughtered? Did the occupant of his cabin figure in it?

Tom came to the burn at the top of the mountain, and let Pete's reins hang slack while he braced the fishing rod against the pommel. Rifle in hand, he raised himself in the stirrups and looked about for signs of the boar. Seeing nothing, he pulled Smoky over to the tracks he had seen that morning. The big hound snuffled about obediently, then looked up. He seemed to be asking what he was supposed to do about it. Tom laughed at his sad, reproachful face, then clucked to Pete and started down the slope toward his cabin. He didn't know just what he had expected the hound to do himself, he admitted.

They were still a quarter of a mile from the cabin when Smoky stopped. He stood with one front paw curled back, as though he were pointing birds. A soft growl rumbled in his throat. Tom bent forward, trying in vain to see through the trees that overhung the trail. He whistled softly to himself. It was almost incredible to think that the hound could smell the cabin from this distance. Could it be something else?

Tom rode slowly forward, rifle raised and his eyes on Smoky. The tawny hound strained forward, pulling on the leash and testing the wind currents as he advanced. Whoever or whatever he smelled must be at the cabin. Then Tom rode into the clearing.

The first thing he saw was a black and white pinto that might have been Pete's twin, tied to the porch railing. A man sat beside the horse, swinging his feet. Pete nickered a greeting to the other horse and was answered. The man looked toward them, and stood up.

It was the same stocky, red-haired man who had stopped Tom in the trail yesterday!