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“Looks like a dead end ahead,” Carmella said; she put her plump hands on the dashboard, as if to ward off a pending collision. But the road ended at a clearing, one that could have been mistaken for a dump-or perhaps it was a graveyard for abandoned trucks and trailers. Many of the trucks had been dissected for their parts. Several outbuildings were scattered throughout the premises; one weather-beaten shack had the appearance of a log-cabin smokehouse, from which so much smoke seeped through the cracks between the logs that the entire building looked as if it were about to burst into flames. A smaller, more focused column of smoke rose from a stovepipe atop a trailer-a former wanigan, Da
Da
“A fella I know butchers my bears for me, if I give him some of the meat,” Ketchum had told Da
“Ketchum!” Da
“Who wants to know?” they heard Ketchum shout, before the door opened to the wanigan with the smoking stovepipe. Ketchum quickly put the rifle away.
“Well, you aren’t as late as you thought you would be!” he hailed them, in a friendly fashion. “It’s nice to see you again, Carmella,” he told her, almost flirtatiously.
“It’s nice to see you, Mr. Ketchum,” she said.
“Come on in and have some coffee,” Ketchum told them. “Bring Cookie’s ashes with you, Da
Carmella was curious to see the container, too. They had to pass the strong-smelling bearskin on the clothesline before entering the wanigan, and Carmella looked away from the bear’s severed head; it was still attached to the pelt, but the head hung nose-down, almost touching the ground, and a bright globe of blood had bubbled and congealed. Where the blood had once dripped from the bear’s nostrils, it now resembled a Christmas ornament attached to the dead animal’s nose.
“‘Amos’ New York Steak Spice,’” Ketchum proudly read aloud, holding the jar in one hand. “Well, that’s a fine choice. If you don’t mind, Da
“No, I don’t mind,” Da
Ketchum had made coffee the way old-timers did in the wanigans. He’d put eggshells, water, and ground coffee in a roasting pan, and had brought it to a boil on top of the woodstove. Supposedly, the eggshells drew the coffee grounds to them; you could pour the coffee from a corner of the pan, and most of the grounds stayed in the pan with the eggshells. The cook had debunked this method, but Ketchum still made his coffee this way. It was strong, and he served it with sugar, whether you wanted sugar or not-strong and sweet, and a little silty, “like Turkish coffee,” Carmella commented.
She was trying hard not to look around in the wanigan, but the amazing (though well-organized) clutter was too tempting. Da
Almost lost among the rifles and the shotguns, where the Walker bluetick bear hound must have felt most at home, was a canvas dog bed stuffed with cedar chips. Carmella gasped when she saw Hero lying on the dog bed, though the bear hound’s wounds were more striking than severe. His mottled white and bluish-gray flank had been raked by the bear’s claws. The bleeding had stopped, and the cuts on Hero’s hip were scabbed over, but the dog had bled in his bed overnight; he looked stiff with pain.
“I didn’t realize that Hero had lost half an ear,” Ketchum told them. “There was so much blood yesterday, I thought the whole ear was still there. It was only when the ear stopped bleeding a bit that I could see it was half gone!”
“My goodness-” Carmella started to say.
“Shouldn’t you take him to a vet?” Da
“Hero isn’t friendly to the vet,” Ketchum said. “We’ll take Hero to Six-Pack on our way to the river. Pam’s got some gunk that works good for claw wounds, and I’ve got an antibiotic for the ear-while what’s left of it is healing. Doesn’t it serve you right, Hero?” Ketchum asked the dog. “I told you-you were too far ahead of me! The fool dog got to the bear while I was out of range!” Ketchum explained to Carmella.
“The poor creature,” was all she could say.
“Oh, he’ll be fine-I’ll just feed him some of the bear meat!” Ketchum told her. “Let’s get going,” he said to Da
“What’s the gun for? It looks like you got your bear,” Da
“You’ll see,” Ketchum told him.
“You’re not going to shoot anything, are you, Mr. Ketchum?” Carmella asked him.
“Only if there’s a critter in need of shooting,” Ketchum answered her. Then, as if to change the subject, Ketchum said to Da
“Stay!” Ketchum said suddenly, to Hero, and the dog froze alongside Carmella, who had stopped in her tracks, too.
In the smokehouse, the ski
They went out of the smokehouse and saw Carmella and the bear hound, standing transfixed exactly where they’d left them-as if only a violent change in the weather would have persuaded the woman and the dog to rethink their positions. “Come on, Hero,” Ketchum said, and Carmella dutifully followed the hound to the truck-as if the old river driver had also spoken to her. Ketchum lifted Hero, putting the injured dog in the back of the pickup.
“You’ll have to indulge Six-Pack, Da
“I never blamed Six-Pack, either,” Da