Читать книгу A Nose for Trouble - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 5

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As Tom rode up, he noticed that the man had changed his denim shirt for a clean wool one, and had treated the cut on his face with iodine. He was still packing his revolver, though, and a rifle leaned against the railing of the porch.

"Hello, Rainse," the stranger greeted him. "I thought I'd better wait for you and explain about my using your cabin."

"That's all right," said Tom awkwardly. "It was empty. You a stranger in these parts?"

"I was," the red-haired man replied grimly, "but I'm getting acquainted." He fingered his scarred cheek. "I'm Buck Brunt, the game warden for this district."

Tom dismounted without replying. So his uninvited guest was the man who had the thankless job of bringing game laws to the mountains! One mystery was solved, anyway.

"After the Black Elk, eh?" he asked noncommittally.

The warden shot him a quick look. "My job is enforcing the game laws—all of them."

Still holding the leash, Tom walked up to the porch and leaned his own rifle and rod against the railing. Smoky smelled the stranger over thoroughly. With a bloodhound's curiosity, he was investigating this new scent and filing it away in the deep mazes of his brain. Satisfied, he flopped down on the porch and paid no more attention to him.

"Look here, Tom," said the warden suddenly. "I checked up on you when I got to Hilldale yesterday. Pop Halvorsen said you'd always been a square shooter, and so had your dad. Said he was a man who observed every game law before it was ever on the books. Your dad believed in leaving something for the next man, and the next generation. So do you. I need somebody who can help me clean up this mess, somebody who knows the mountains. How about it?"

"These people in here are friends of mine. If you think I'm going to help you arrest them for shooting a little meat, you're crazy."

The warden smiled. "I'm not saying that your friends do great harm, even though they'll have to conform, too. We can educate them. But the game in this region is being systematically cleaned out by market butchers. You've heard of the Black Elk outfit already. Everybody has, but nobody will talk. I can't get him alone, partly because he's smart and it's a big region, but mostly because your mountain friends are too closemouthed to give even a pirate like that away! But they know you and will talk to you."

Tom shook his head. "I told you these people are friends of mine. I reckon I'll mind my own affairs."

"You're like all the rest!" Buck Brunt said with sudden anger. "You can't see anything that doesn't lie in front of your nose! Yeah, I know that old Bill Tolliver and twenty like him have been shooting game in here since the year one! Do you think that can go on forever? There just isn't that much game. Wildlife belongs to all the people, not to a few! Someday these mountains of yours will be a wonderful recreational area for all who want to get out and see what nature is like. Neither you nor all your hard-skulled hillbilly friends can prevent it! We have the law on our side and the law will win! There are some who realize that already."

"Who?"

"This skunk who calls himself the Black Elk, for one. Why do you think he's in such a hurry to clean out the mountains now? Because he knows that he can't get away with it much longer. We'll close his markets and arrest the thoughtless people who buy the wildlife he butchers. And we'll get him, as well as the whole yellow crew that's helping him!"

Tom was impressed. The warden was hot-tempered and openly scornful, but Tom had to admire his zeal and courage. If it was only just a matter of the Black Elk, and didn't involve his friends!

"Sorry I can't see it your way," he said lamely. "It's just—"

"So am I," snapped Buck Brunt. "It's your choice, friend. I'll move my stuff out and be on my way."

"You needn't work up a sweat about it," Tom replied. "The cabin's big enough for two for a few days."

"I don't think your mountaineer pals would like it much," the warden sneered.

Tom flushed. "It's my cabin."

"Do you really feel that way?" the redhead asked.

"Yeah."

"Then I'll stay until I find another cabin. Thanks. Be seeing you."

Catching up his rifle, the hotheaded warden mounted his horse and rode down the trail.

Tom stared after him, half-minded to call him back. He did not like the idea of game from his mountains being sold through markets. No mountain man would conceive such a scheme, and if local men were involved it was a safe bet that they were directed by someone else, some outsider. Mountain-bred himself, Tom resented all trespassers by instinct.

As he led Pete to the corral and rubbed him down, he considered and reconsidered the warden's offer. Two men could succeed where one would fail. And success would mean breaking up a poaching ring that might otherwise strip the mountains clean. But who was involved in the ring? Some of them were sure to be mountaineers he knew—men who had always led their own lives and let others lead theirs, as he had.

"I reckon not," he finally murmured to Pete. "Guess I'll hang fire and mind my own business."

When he came back to the cabin, Smoky was standing on the edge of the porch, head held high. He was testing the air, apparently reading with his nose the direction Buck Brunt was taking. Few dogs of any breed could pick up body scent at the distance which the red-haired warden must have covered by now. Tom looked thoughtfully at the big hound.

"You've got a nose, all right," he said, "and I've trained a couple of hounds in my day. If I can bring you around, there won't be a cold trailer in the mountains that can touch you. Come here, Smoky."

The tawny hound's toenails clicked on the porch as he padded across to Tom. When he raised his head, Tom smiled at the perpetually sad expression. Then the smile broke. He had always cherished a theory that all good dogs considered that they owned their masters as much as they were owned by them. He thought he saw that trait already reflected in Smoky's eyes. The tawny hound regarded Tom as an equal. He felt that he had acquired a friend, and not a master. Tom reached down to scratch the floppy ears. Smoky shoved his heavy jaw against Tom's leg, and sighed contentedly.

"Even Bill Tolliver can't tell me that a hound like you won't run game," Tom said, straightening up. "Anyhow, now is a good time to find out." He picked up his rifle and the end of Smoky's leash.

The black boar's tracks were hours old, but any hound with a nose as keen as Smoky's should be able to pick them up and follow them. Not that he expected one hound to bring the big beast to bay and hold him. He merely wished to see what Smoky could do on a game trail. If he could learn to hunt game, there would be good sport in future.

Pete nickered anxiously when they passed the corral, but Tom left the black and white pinto where he was. Though Smoky had already proven his ability to run with a horse, even when he was leashed, it would be better to walk when trying to teach him how to hunt. Then he could give all his attention to the dog.

When they came to the burn on top of the mountain, Tom dropped a little behind. The tawny hound hesitated, looked around at him, and went on. Suddenly he stopped.

His head went up, and he lifted one foreleg like a pointer's as he snuffled into the wind. He made a few uncertain motions and swung clear around. Apparently he had a scent that puzzled him, and was trying to straighten it out.

Tom unwound the rope from his wrist and stepped back to the end, leaving Smoky plenty of slack. He said and did nothing. The hound had voluntarily picked up a scent. What he himself did with it would, in large measure, determine whether he had the makings of a good hunting dog, or was just another hound. To interfere with him, or to direct him unnecessarily, would take away his initiative.

Again Smoky swung around, testing every possible angle from which a scent might come. Then he looked squarely at the spot where Tom had seen the black boar. For a moment he stood perfectly still, orienting himself and making sure that this was the scent he wanted. Then, with a slow, methodical step, he pulled forward.

Tom followed, keeping near enough to give Smoky slack rope and freedom in which to work, but staying far enough behind so that he did not interfere. He was exultant. Bill Tolliver had been wrong about the tawny hound. Smoky was not only a game hunter but, rarest of all, he was a natural hunter. He had proven it by voluntarily picking up the boar's scent. If he lived up to the promise he was showing, then Tom had a single dog which would be almost as valuable as a pack. Hounds able to find a very cold trail were nearly as rare as the proverbial hen's teeth.

A slow and deliberate dog, one that never moved until he was certain of where that move would take him, Smoky dipped his muzzle to the ground and snuffled prodigiously. Then he dropped back to verify a wisp of scent that he had picked up. With painful slowness he moved into the brush, his head still to the ground so he could keep his nose near the elusive trail he had discovered.

Tom followed happily. Many hours after it had been laid, Smoky was slowly but surely on the trail of the black boar. That alone proved the quality of both his nose and his hunting instinct. Even Twig, undisputed leader of Bill Tolliver's pack, could not find a trail this old and follow it so surely. Old Bill had missed a good bet when he had so casually given the hound to Tom.

Smoky faltered, and retraced his steps to pick up the trail where he had lost it. Tom waited patiently. The sun had certainly burned out most of the boar's scent. On this hot, dry day, on the exposed burn, worse tracking conditions could hardly be imagined. It was amazing that the hound had picked up the trail at all. Then Smoky came to the edge of the burn and started straight down a trodden footpath that led into the forest.

Tom frowned. The boar was a wild thing with all the cunning ways of its kind. It seemed inconceivable that such a creature would venture upon a trail used by man, much less follow it for any distance. Yet Smoky did not hesitate. Half reluctantly, Tom followed. The nose of a good dog was far more acute than the sharpest eyes of any human. If a hunter could not trust his hound, then he was better off without it. Now was the time to find out whether Smoky's nose could be trusted.

The dog swung away from the trail and into the brush. Tom followed, brushing aside clusters of half-ripened huckleberries as he made his way behind the big hound. His waning confidence returned. All wild animals are individualistic. The black boar, for reasons of his own, had seen fit to walk for a while on a path trodden by humans. Then he had left it for the more normal course that a wild thing would choose.

Tom followed Smoky down a sunbaked slope and into a valley dotted with clumps of aspens. He looked ahead. On the far side of the valley rose another slope, marked by a single pine that towered on its flank like a sentinel. The course Smoky was following took them up the mountain toward the tree. Tom paused to wipe the sweat from his face and went on.

Smoky broke into a little trot and Tom had to run to keep up with him. The tawny hound strained to the end of the leash toward the big pine. When he reached it he leaped up the trunk.

Tom stood back, baffled by the hound's actions. The boar certainly hadn't climbed the tree. What was the matter with Smoky, anyhow? Had he picked up the body scent of a bear or wildcat? If so, he would naturally bay his treed quarry. Tom spoke sharply.

"Get down there!"

The big hound dropped back to the base of the pine and stood for an irresolute moment. Then he struck directly through the brush, toward a fringe of tall trees that hemmed it in. Tom followed, more and more puzzled as the silent hound advanced. No normal hound should act as Smoky was acting. Yet he was clearly on a trail. Tom had to believe what he saw.

Deep in the forest, Smoky stopped suddenly. He stood tense and quivering, one forepaw lifted. A low growl bubbled in his throat. Tom walked up and quieted the big hound. Just ahead was a trail, one of many that wound through the forest, and Smoky was watching it. Something must be coming down that trail!

Tom shortened the rope. Holding the hound close to him, he slipped behind a tree. From there he advanced to another, and another, until he could look down the trail. Tom stared in disbelief.

Coming down the path was a bareheaded little man with a shock of ragged brown hair that tumbled all over his head. The little man was peering ahead through thick, horn-rimmed glasses, raising his feet high and bringing them down carefully so they would make no noise. He wore a blue sports shirt, blue trousers, and soft low shoes. Obviously he was not a native. A streetcar coming down the lonely trail could not have been much more surprising than this mild little creature. Then Tom noticed the ugly black automatic he carried in his hand.

He was traveling very slowly, intent on the trail ahead. He would bend down as if looking for tracks, straighten up and peer all around, then stop to listen before going on again.

Tom let him go past, then spoke abruptly.

"You lose something, bud?"

The little man whirled so swiftly that his tumbled hair rearranged itself in an entirely new pattern. He lifted his automatic, then dropped it and laughed nervously. When he spoke, his voice was a squeaky falsetto.

"Oh dear yes! I mean oh dear no! I lost nothing!"

"For a man who hadn't lost anything, you were looking mighty hard."

"I am looking for a wild boar," the little man explained. "For a black Russian boar that roams these woods. I am Chalmers Garsoney, and I am studying the wildlife of the mountains so I may write about it. I thought that I might find signs of the boar on this trail."

"So you are a student of wild life, eh?"

"My whole career," Chalmers Garsoney said proudly, "has been devoted to studying creatures of the wild."

"And you look for a wild boar on an open trail? Did you expect to find him poking along like a porcupine?"

"It is not unreasonable to suppose that it might travel this trail."

"Well, it could be," Tom agreed. "Have you seen his tracks?"

"I came upon them in a burned area on top of the mountain. The boar must have crossed it recently."

"He did," Tom admitted. "I saw him. And he's a whacking big brute with an ugly look in his eye. He could make hash out of you in two seconds—unless you could hit him with that cannon you're carrying."

"I feel quite capable of defending myself, thank you," the little man replied stiffly.

Smoky had strained forward to snuffle Chalmers Garsoney thoroughly. Tom looked dispiritedly at the tawny hound. Old Bill had been right. Smoky was a natural-born man hunter and had no interest whatever in game. He had been on the trail of Chalmers Garsoney all the time. Now he was merely verifying the scent he had been following. Tom looked up.

"Why did you climb that big pine on top of the mountain?"

"I thought it might offer me a commanding view from which I might see the black boar."

"You must have seen us in the valley."

"I did, and naturally wondered why your dog was tracking me. Isn't he a bloodhound?"

"He's part bloodhound," Tom admitted ruefully, "but I didn't know he was tracking you. I thought he'd taken the boar's trail and was on it."

The little man laughed sympathetically. "Well, better luck next time. If you will excuse me, I shall be on with my studies."

"Go ahead. But take care of yourself. That boar is ugly."

"Thank you," the little man said. "I will be careful."

The self-styled student of wildlife went on down the trail and Tom cut back through the forest toward his cabin.

He was both amused and puzzled by Chalmers Garsoney. Of all the strange things that had invaded the mountains during his absence, the little nature lover was the most unexpected. What a way to stalk game—stepping daintily down an open trail with an automatic!

Was he the harmless crackpot he appeared to be? He had seen Tom and Smoky from the pine tree, and had assumed they were following him. Maybe he was backtracking his own trail to do a little bushwhacking!

No, that was absurd. The little man certainly wasn't much of a woodsman, but should know that he wouldn't have a chance against a mountaineer with a rifle and a dog. Tom shook his head. He had seen and heard too much since getting off the train in Hilldale. He was growing suspicious of everything and everybody.

Well, he had learned one thing: Smoky was more bloodhound than Plott hound. He had hoped that the big dog would run game. Apparently he wouldn't. Since Tom hadn't any intention of hunting men, the hound was of little practical value. He might be good company, and the cabin probably would be lonesome after Buck Brunt left. Tom shrugged. He would keep Smoky as a companion, then.

As they entered the clearing, Smoky growled softly and looked toward the cabin. Paying no attention, Tom walked up on the porch. He stopped in his tracks.

Somebody had been here since he left. Smoky's growl should have given him warning of that. Tom stared at the paper that was stuck in the door, pulled it out, and read it twice.

There's enough people around here now. Get out within forty-eight hours or take what's coming to you.

The signature was a drawing of a black elk!

Tom felt the back of his neck grow warm, and fierce anger surged like a flood through him. He was being warned to get out of the mountains or suffer the consequences, was he? He crumpled the note in his hand. He had tried to avoid trouble, but apparently the Black Elk was out to find some. Well, he could have it!

Again Smoky rumbled a warning, and turned to face the trail that led out of the clearing. Dragging the hound with him, Tom stepped inside the doorway and held his rifle ready.

A minute later Buck Brunt rode in, and stopped at the corral to turn his horse in with Pete. When he came toward the cabin, Tom was standing on the porch, holding out the note.

"Read this," he demanded.

Buck Brunt unfolded the paper and read it. He looked at Tom quizzically.

"Well?"

"Is that warden's job still open?"

"Do you know what you're getting into?"

"I know that no gang of hoodlums is going to run me out of these mountains."

"What about minding your own business?" There was a half-smile on the warden's hard face.

"This is my business."

Buck Brunt took a leather wallet from his pocket and extracted two papers. "Then sign these."

"What are they?"

"Your appointment. One will have to go on file at headquarters. You keep the other."

Tom signed both papers without a word.