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Buck’s Loot
Hank Hufnagel |
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Mouse Monroe woke when the snoring stopped and a different kind of commotion began. He was surprised he had slept at all, after lying awake into the wee hours of the night listening to Pig’s snore, thinking what a bad bargain he had made. Now Pig was rooting around and everything in his duffle seemed to be involved; pieces of mess kit clanked; a canteen sloshed; something heavy, like a Boy Scout Handbook, thumped to the ground. What was he up to? All Mouse could see was a vague outline, black-on-black. Then the shape moved toward the door, a zipper unzipped, and Pig was crawling out. “Where are you going?” Mouse asked quietly. “I’m hungry. Gonna get something to eat.” “Wait for me!” Mouse squirmed up out of his mummy bag and felt around for something warm to put on. He had to hurry or Pig would just disappear like last time. Then there would be trouble, and not just for Pig but for himself as well, since he was Pig’s semiofficial minder. The kid just wasn’t responsible. Lying flat on his back, Mouse pulled himself into damp jeans and yesterday’s socks, then knelt and felt for his shirt. Pig’s rooting had disturbed Mouse’s neat system for arranging his gear and it was a half minute before he found his shirt, crowded against the side of the tent. It was wet from the condensation that covered the inside of the tent on this cool morning. It was wet, but it wasn’t soaked, and it would just have to do. As Mouse felt in his pack for his old green camping sweater, he wanted to call out to make sure Pig was still close by, but was reluctant to disturb the rest of the camp at this early hour and so just concentrated on getting dressed as quickly as possible. He had accepted this job only because of the deal he had made with Paxton. Pig was legendary for loud snoring, extreme messiness, and for his strange and solitary ways. The other Scouts were overjoyed when Mouse volunteered to bunk up with him, but that did not stop them from promptly naming their tent the Animal House. So funny. Not! Mouse pulled on his jacket and exited the tent, making sure to zip up the door behind as he stepped out into the cold, gray predawn camp. Now if he could just find Pig. He shuffled over to where the rest of the troop’s tents were pitched in a cluster and on past to the supply tent. He opened the flap of the big old canvas monster and could dimly see the stacks of tools, the duffle bags full of gear and the crates filled with food, but he saw no sign of Pig. “You lookin’ for me?” came a voice at his ear. Mouse jumped a foot. “Yeah,” he whispered, “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” “I didn’t want to wake the rest of the camp,” said Pig. Mouse turned to look at the roly-poly 15-year-old boy. He was dressed in a red barred hunting shirt buttoned askew over top of baggy army fatigues that looked like they belonged to a much bigger man. Unlaced army boots completed the outfit and Mouse thought he looked more bum than woodsman. “Want some?” asked Pig, holding out a plastic Tang container. “Are you eating that stuff raw?” asked Mouse incredulous. “Yeah, why mess around with mixing. Just eat it and when you’ve had enough you take a big drink of water and it gets mixed up just fine in your stomach. No fuss, no mess, no cleanup.” So saying, he tilted the container to his mouth and gave it a tap. His cheeks bulged as he chewed at the Tang. “Good stuff,” he mumbled through lips coated with orange powder. “How can you eat the stuff like that?” said Mouse. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Come on, take a little.” Normally Mouse would have said no, but the Tang did smell pretty good, was making his mouth water, so he reached into the container, took a big pinch between thumb and index finger and dropped it on his tongue. It was like a citrus bomb going off in his mouth. His eyes got big and started to water; he nearly choked. Then his saliva dissolved the powder into a paste, then into a liquid and finally into nothing but a strong aftertaste. “Hey, not bad!” Together the two polished off the rest of the can and went in search of some water to complete their early morning snack. It was still well before dawn when this phase of operations was complete, and Mouse was thinking about stirring up the previous night’s fire to get warm, when he turned to see Pig was gone. No, wait, there he was striding off across the campground. Rats, he felt like a baby sitter or something. Still, to hold up his end of the deal he had to make sure Pig showed up on time for breakfast. Hurrying to catch up he tripped and fell over a tent line, but scrambled to his feet and soon came up beside Pig. “Where are you going?” Mouse asked. “Out for a walk. There are lots of animals out this time of day.” “Wouldn’t you rather start a fire and get warm?” “Naw. A good walk will warm me up just fine. You wanna come along?” Mouse thought a second. It sounded like Pig was going with or without him. At least if he went along, he could keep an eye on the time, so he said, “OK,” to Pig’s already retreating back and followed along behind. They went close by the part of the campground where all the adults were sleeping — “Camp Snore” the Scouts called it and with good reason. The sleeping men were very, very loud. Pig’s snores were small and puny things by comparison. Mouse supposed that with some practice he could probably tell who was in each tent just by the style of the snore, its pitch and its volume, but he was content to leave that line of investigation for someone else to explore. The snoring faded as they walked past Mr. Ellsworth’s pyramid-shaped tent and left the large clearing that was Bear Run Camp. In a few seconds, they were in the woods. Pig seemed to know just where he was going, and Mouse was content to follow along twenty feet behind. He noticed Pig’s feet somehow magically managed to move through the leaves, twigs, downed branches, logs and clutter without making a sound. He tried to do this himself, but he could not get the knack of it. As Pig silently stalked the forest floor, he may have looked like a goofy lumberman, but he moved like an Indian. Every once in a while he would look back to make sure he had Mouse’s attention and then point at a log, or a pile of leaves in a tree, or at one of the large boulders that littered the landscape. When Mouse got to the same spot he would look closely, but all he ever saw was a big log, a pile of leaves or a dark gray boulder. “So what?” he thought in frustration. Now Pig came to the rim of the valley. This was brim full of fog and Mouse was concerned about both visibility and the steepness of the hillside as it fell toward a stream he heard far below. No way did he want to go down in there and get lost. “Pig! Stop!” and Mouse went chugging up to stand with his Indian guide. “Let’s not go down in there. I’m not against a little hike, but I want to be able to see things. We’ll never see any animals down in there.” Pig considered for a second then said, “Well, we’ve been doing all right so far, haven’t we? I think we could maybe find a flock of turkeys down there this time of day.” “What do you mean, ‘We have been doing all right?’ We haven’t seen a single thing so far.” Pig’s eyebrows rose. “I’ve been pointing all kinds of stuff out to you.” “Yeah, real interesting logs, fascinating piles of leaves, riveting old rocks. I thought we were looking for animals.” Pig smiled unbelievingly; he was plainly puzzled. “You really didn’t see the rattlesnake under the log, or the squirrel in the leaves? You didn’t see that porcupine?” Mouse didn’t believe any of it. “How could I have missed a porcupine?” “Well, all right, maybe I didn’t see the porcupine, but couldn’t you smell it hiding up under that rock?” “No. Are you sure you’re not just making this stuff up?” “Why would I lie? Look, how about we go up instead of down. We can get up on the hilltop in time to see the sunrise. How’s that for a plan?” “That would be fine,” replied Mouse. “Yeah, that will be better anyway. As noisy as you move, we’d never get close to a turkey. Maybe we’ll see some deer or a bear from up there.” “That would be fine,” said Mouse, not believing he would see anything, but anyway relieved that they would be headed up into the dawn instead of down into fog as thick as night. Pig turned on his heel and set off across the bench they had been walking along, then up the hill on the other side. Soon they came to a dirt road, and Pig stopped and pointed. Mouse came sliding up beside him as quiet as ever he knew how. He followed the point, and then leaned close and very softly said, “I don’t see anything.”
“It’s a dirt road,” was Pig’s
whispered reply. “Careful, don’t spook it.” “Oil well,” said Mouse, looking at Pig to see how this answer would be received. “You’re getting better,” said Pig with ill-concealed glee. “Come on, we have to hurry now or the sun will get there before us.” So saying, he stepped out, hurrying up the path. Mouse was hard put to keep up as the path swung out into the field. He was breathing hard by the time they reached the top of the hill. They stopped there and turned to face the sunrise, but Mouse saw that the path continued on along the ridge top and off into another woods headed for who knows where. Now he gazed off to the east, where the sun was just peeping over a far distant horizon of dim, dark-green trees. It was wonderful. They stood quietly and watched the dawning of a new day. The landscape slowly changed from a confusion of dark blobs to a fascinating mix of hills and valleys, forests and fields. In the far distance, Mouse could just see the courthouse tower over in Clarion. He walked past that every day on the way to school, and it seemed strange to see it now, way out here in the wilderness. It was somehow exciting to stand here and look over to where his mother was still fast asleep in her bed. He felt sorry for her that she was missing something as beautiful as this sunrise. The river valleys were full of clouds, and it seemed the shine of the sun was warming the clouds, shifting them about. The tops of the valleys were mostly covered with pine trees that looked dark and remote. The hills, though, were a million shades of orange, red, purple and, most of all, yellow. What a great fall day it was going to be. It would be easy to get Pig back to breakfast on time, and then, based on that success, he would finally be accepted as one of the old hands in the troop. No longer would he be counted a kid, a beginner, a tenderfoot — a mouse. From this day on, he would be one of the old Scouts. Pig nudged him and pointed to the northeast. “I live over there about three miles.” “So that’s how you know so much about the country.” “Yeah, my dad and me walk all around here in hunting season. Down there in the ditch is Toby Creek, over there towards town, that’s the Clarion River.” “Got it. That thin bit of fog down in there to the left must be Bear Run then.” “Right,” said Pig, satisfied that Mouse could read the land at least a little. “Look up further to the left there. What do you see over there?” Mouse’s response was guarded. He had been tricked before. “I see a farm and some fields across from where Bear Run comes up along the base of this hill.” Mouse paused. He sensed Pig’s impatience at the reply. He looked again, looked harder, then with a smile, he said, “And I see the herd of deer.” “Good,” said Pig, “and you haven’t even managed to scare them away yet.” Then he got serious. “Say, what’s that?” “Where? I don’t see anything else.” “There, about 100 yards to the left of the deer. See the man? See how he is moving slow and low? See the gun?” Suddenly Mouse did see. And, there was something wrong with what he saw. If the man stood up and fired down toward the deer, the bullet would just about line up with the campground down at Bear Run. Somebody down at camp could be hurt! They had to stop him, were too far away to shout. No time to talk about it. They had to move now before it was too late. “Come on,” said Mouse already running, “We’ve got to stop him before it’s too late.”
With that, Mouse took off on a beeline
for the deer herd. Coming up the hill, Pig may have been a little
faster, but headed down, Mouse’s long legs were a distinct
advantage. The air whistled in his hair as he almost flew toward the
woods along Bear Run. Adrenaline spurred him on as he rushed through
the trees, down across the small run and up the opposite hill. Pig
gained some near the end, but it was Mouse alone who raced out into
the field, straight for the deer. The peaceful animals looked up, spooked and then bounded away in great arcing leaps from the yelling, arm-waving creature that has so suddenly burst from the quiet forest. Then they redoubled their pace as two massive explosions ripped the morning calm. Behind them, Mouse fell heavily to the ground.
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