Moose Tracks (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage) Page 3

  Seth gulped down his glass of milk. First time around. He tried to picture his mom having a baby all alone at a hospital near the university, without a father nearby who cared. She probably wasn’t too happy about it, about having a baby all alone back then. Now it was different. When Dad was home, he spent all his time giving her back rubs with a tennis ball and talking to her belly.

  Seth clenched his jaw. He had to get back to the woods. He glanced in the living room at his mom, who was still talking on the phone, then turned toward the back door. Reaching in his pocket, he touched the soft fur of the rabbit’s paw to remind himself of his bravery. But was it really bravery to shoot the rabbit? He couldn’t think about that now. Quietly, he slipped outside.

  Snow swirled around the yard. He wondered where the poachers were now. Most likely, they’d taken some time to drag away the moose cow. But were they out there now, hunting the calf? Seth felt hot with anger. He had to hurry. He had to get to the calf before they did.

  In the barn, Seth reached into a barrel and pulled out an apple. He held it in the flat of his hand for Quest, who bit it in half with a chomp, then grabbed the other half with his teeth.

  Seth didn’t want to wait to warm the bit, so he used the hackamore bridle, the one without a bit that puts pressure on a horse’s head. For extra warmth, he’d skip the saddle and ride bareback.

  He grabbed his leather waist pack hanging from a nail and scooped in a dozen cups of shiny golden oats—the perfect bait for a moose calf.

  “Sorry, boy,” Seth said to Quest as he opened the barn door, a blast of wind hitting him full in the face. “I hate to make you leave your cozy stall so soon.”

  Icy branches creaked as Seth rode back into the woods. It felt as if there were fish flopping around in his stomach. He hoped his plan would work.

  Circling to the south side of the marsh, where the calf had crossed, Seth found fresh moose tracks that led down a well-traveled deer path into the woods.

  Seth hopped off his horse and led him by the reins, following the teardrop tracks down a rocky slope. He slipped over knotted tree roots and fresh snow and found himself in a lowland of cedar.

  Stepping over downed trees, Seth stopped next to a large pawed-out mud hole about five feet in diameter. Though he’d read of these mud holes, he’d never run across one. Even half-frozen, it had a strong pungent smell, like horse urine. It was a wallow, a meeting place for moose during their mating season.

  Seth smiled and gave himself a thumbs-up. This was better than he hoped for. The calf probably had been here before with its mother. Maybe it would return. All his senses were on full alert. He heard the creaking trees, the rustle of a mouse beneath the ice-covered ground, the breathing of his horse. He looked around. A chickadee flitted past.

  He was sure the calf was near.

  And Dad would be amazed when Seth led him into the barn, with the moose calf in the stall, its wound bandaged. “Saved him from the poachers,” Seth would say. Dad would pat him on the back and say, “Best son I could ever hope for,” or something like that.

  He dropped Quest’s reins to the ground.

  As Quest searched for blades of grass beneath the snow, his muzzle frosty with cold, Seth found two heavy sticks.

  He searched for the right tree and found it just a few yards up the slope overlooking the lowland clearing. The perfect climbing tree, a forked white pine. Using the tree’s branches for his ladder, he climbed up and balanced himself on a branch about nine feet above the ground.

  Sitting on the branch, his shoulder against the tree’s trunk, Seth started whacking the sticks together, hoping to attract the calf.

  Clack. Clack. Nothing.

  Clack, clack, clack.

  No sound of approaching moose. No deer coming to investigate, either. Seth hit the sticks together repeatedly, trying different rhythms, hitting soft and then loud, fast and then slow, until he was just about ready to give up on the whole dumb idea. Besides, his toes felt numb.

  He started knocking his boots together to warm himself.

  The likelihood that he’d attract the calf was about one in ten thousand. Maybe he was little more than a kid with no brains after all. Why else would someone sit in a tree pounding sticks together?

  He gave it one more try—just in case the calf had heard the sound from far off and was traveling closer to investigate, perhaps wanting to be near another moose.

  Clack. Clack. Clack.

  No movement at all, except Quest chewing on a few weeds.

  Suddenly Quest’s head shot up. The whites of his eyes showed. A crashing sound came toward them, the sound of branches breaking under the great weight of something huge.

  Something powerful.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The massive body and rack of the bull moose filled the small clearing. He snorted and blew out short angry blasts of air.

  Seth held his breath.

  Quest reared and pivoted, then bolted through the woods up the bank toward the trail.

  “Quest! Come back!” Seth yelled. He put two fingers to his mouth, ready to whistle for Quest. Then he looked at the moose and hesitated.

  The bull moose lowered its rack and pawed at the ground, stirring up a shower of leaves, dirt, and snow. Then it charged after Quest a few feet and stopped.

  Walking back toward the clearing, the moose moved nimbly with its huge rack between cedar branches. No animal, not even a wolf, was a match for a healthy bull moose.

  As Seth clutched the branch more tightly, his sticks dropped through the tree’s lower branches to the ground.

  At the sound, the moose turned its head toward the tree, its eyes dark glass marbles. Seth had heard that moose had poor eyesight; he wondered if it could see him now.

  The bull lowered its head, its giant rack glistening with snowflakes, and made a low throaty bellow that reverberated through the trees.

  Seth tried to swallow, but his throat was tight and dry. He pressed up closer to the tree trunk and tightened his grip on the limb. The branch creaked.

  Seth froze.

  The bull snorted and pawed again at the wallow. He walked in a wide circle, head down. Nostrils flaring, the bull pointed his muzzle into the air. He walked over to the tree and scraped his antlers back and forth along the trunk, as if sharpening his equipment for battle.

  Seth’s heart pounded so hard that he thought it might explode.

  For a few moments, the bull stood still, ruler of the forest, then lumbered to the wallow, pawed around the edges, straddled it, and peed.

  It seemed unaware of Seth.

  The moose backed up a few feet and waited, its shoulders and haunches broad and muscular, beautiful and frightening.

  Time stopped.

  Neither moose nor boy moved.

  Seth’s sweaty hands turned icy inside his gloves. His toes felt like rubber. How long would this moose keep him there? How long would it take to freeze to death? Would he just turn solid in the tree, or would he gradually lose his strength and fall from the tree and then get trampled by the moose? This far from the trail, nobody would find him. His body would simply rot into the forest floor.

  Snow fell in heavy flakes and melted on Seth’s nose and cheeks. Gradually, the moose’s back grew a layer of white snow.

  Five minutes. Twenty. Maybe an hour.

  Seth’s face felt tight, as though it could crack like hard taffy.

  All he could hear was the bull’s steady breathing. He watched it paw at the wallow, circle, then come back to the tree, raking its antlers against the bark.

  A twig snapped.

  Into the small clearing walked the moose calf, gangly, long-eared, with small dark eyes and a pelt as brown as chocolate. Though it looked too big to have still been nursing, it limped over to the bull and poked its muzzle toward the bull’s belly. The bull feigned a charge at the calf but didn’t touch it, merely scared it.

  The calf jumped back a few feet, its legs so long that it seemed it could get tangled in them, then it w
alked again toward the bull. This time, the bull lowered its head and rammed the calf, pushing it away from the wallow.

  The calf bellowed.

  Determined, it walked toward the bull again and nudged its muzzle against the bull’s nose. The bull butted it hard in the side with a thud.

  Just as Seth was going to yell at the bull, it lumbered off into the woods, as though it didn’t have time for such games. Its handsome rack blended in with the branches, and then it disappeared.

  Seth let out a breath he seemed to have held for hours.

  The calf started off after the bull, then turned back and stood by the wallow, circled once, twice, then lay down. On its haunch was a black splotch of dried blood with a few droplets of red.

  Seth winced. He wondered if the bullet was lodged in the calf’s leg; if so, it would have to come out. He hoped his plan of getting the calf back to the barn would work. He couldn’t just “let nature take its course.” Not this time.

  After waiting a few minutes longer, he relaxed his grip on the tree, his muscles twitching from having been still so long. Despite the icy, penetrating stiffness in his legs, he inched down until his boots touched the ground. He kept his eyes on the calf, unzipped his waist pouch, and grabbed a handful of oats. Then he crept silently toward the calf. Step by slow step. Perhaps he was crazy, but …

  All at once the calf gathered its legs and stood up. It was much taller than it had looked from the saddle or the tree. Seth found himself within arm’s reach. The calf stared at him.

  Seth didn’t move, waiting to see what the calf would do.

  Then, trembling, he slowly held out the oats toward the calf.

  Bringing its muzzle to Seth’s hand, the calf sniffed, then blew out a blast that sent the oats flying. It backed away into the trees and stopped, its large ears flicking gently back and forth.

  Seth started up the slope, letting the oats drop from his hand. He kept all his movements slow. He didn’t want to scare the calf away. Not now. If he couldn’t help it soon, it would probably die.

  Reaching the top of the slope, Seth tossed another handful of oats in the calf’s direction. The calf threw its head back.

  Seth worried that he’d scared it. Maybe he was hoping for too much. He couldn’t wait much longer; it was getting late.

  But then the calf took one step toward the grain, and then another, until it finally dropped its head to the ground and began to follow Seth up the slope toward the trail, limping one step at a time, a safe distance behind.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Seth shook the last oats from his glove onto the snow-carpeted trail. He looked over his shoulder at the calf. With its muzzle down, it pawed at the ground, searched to the left and right, and then lifted its head. Wind blew violently across the top of the pines, but only whispered in hushed tones across the earth’s floor.

  If only he had more oats, he could lead the calf straight home. For now, there was nothing more he could do. Seth stared at the lanky creature as it stared back at him, reminding him of cows along the roadside. Dumb, innocent eyes.

  “About the killing,” Seth said aloud. “I promise, I’ll get even for you.”

  Seth’s throat tightened, and when the calf flicked its ears and turned away into the woods, he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, glad that Matt wasn’t around to see him.

  Seth swung his arms in wide circles and clapped his gloves together to keep his blood circulating. The chill was in his bones. He couldn’t wait to get into a hot bath and warm up. And after a steamy bath, he’d flop down on his soft bed. He quickened his step.

  Seth hoped Quest had headed for the barn. A herd animal by instinct, it would be in the horse to run from danger, to fight only if cornered. That bull moose sure scared the wits out of Quest, Seth thought.

  A large log jutted from the trail. Once moss-covered, it now had a six-inch mound of snow across its length. Seth realized that he was near Hercules and looked up at the limbs of the stately pine. It seemed alive, as though it held accumulated wisdom from years of being still and watching. Just beyond the tree, somewhere under the snow, lay the rabbit carcass with one missing paw.

  Seth felt suddenly confused. The brave feelings he’d had about the paw were slipping away. It didn’t make sense. Matt had been impressed with him. And since getting it, he’d stood up to the poachers, faced the bull moose, found the calf. Then why the hollow feeling? And why did it continue to haunt him?

  Two black scraggly ravens, perched high in the branches of a decaying birch, cawed back and forth to one another as Seth walked by. He sensed their bullet eyes watching. Ravens, some people believed, were a sign that bad things were going to happen. Scavengers, ravens often fed on the remains of dead animals. But Seth didn’t believe the superstitious stuff. Were they there to feed on the rabbit? Were they watching him? Their presence made him feel jumpy. If he let himself, his imagination could easily run wild, but he wouldn’t let it. He was too old to get scared by walking in the woods.

  With each second, the woods grew darker, a gray curtain pulled down farther and farther. He should have told his mom where he was going.

  Seth broke into a run, not stopping until he came out of the woods.

  Snow blew across his face and swirled around his boots. The sky was darkening, and Seth figured it must be around five o’clock.

  Quest stood beside the barn, tail into the wind.

  “So you made it back without me,” Seth said. He grabbed his horse’s reins, lifted the ice-glazed latch, and stepped into the near darkness of the barn. He reached for the hanging light string. “Did that big moose give you a scare?” he said to Quest.

  A voice, menacingly familiar, answered back. “No lights! Over here, kid, before I slit your throat like a strung-up pig!” It was the gravelly voice of the older man of that morning.

  Seth’s legs turned to putty. He looked into the darkness of the barn. Two shadowy figures stepped toward him from behind the bales. They were the two men he’d met in the woods.

  “Be quick,” said the younger man. “We don’t have all day.”

  A flashlight clicked on in Seth’s face. He couldn’t see.

  Seth dropped Quest’s reins and lunged for the door, but a heavy hand grabbed his shoulder and threw him back against the bales of hay.

  “Now listen!” The older man stood over Seth holding a glowing red cigarette. Before he could continue, he began coughing, a dry guttural hacking. Cigarette ashes landed in the straw near Seth’s feet. “We don’t … want trouble,” he said.

  The younger man came up alongside the older man and stared down at Seth.

  “We just stopped by to make a few things clear,” he said in a voice as smooth as Seth’s dentist’s. “We’re concerned that you might go blabbing about something that isn’t your business. You know what I’m talking about?”

  The reek of alcohol and smoke pinched Seth’s nostrils.

  Seth nodded. Quest clopped to his stall, more interested in hay, apparently, than in what happened to Seth.

  “You guys gonna kill me?” Seth squeaked.

  The younger man raised his eyebrows, and drilled Seth with his eyes.

  “I haven’t said anything,” Seth said. “Not a word.”

  “That’s very good,” the man said slowly. He smiled. “Just what we wanted to hear.”

  “But … how did you know where to find me?” Seth asked.

  “There ain’t too many game wardens to choose from,” said the old man. “Besides, seems you were trying to steer that little calf in this direction. So where is it now?”

  “I don’t know. It ran off,” Seth said. He wanted to scream. What were these men going to do with him? “Uh, would you like supper or something?” Seth blurted out, hoping to soften them up.

  “I like this kid, Clancy,” the younger man said. “Would we like supper? He’s real thoughtful.…”

  Clancy. So these men were the poachers Dad was after! A chill swept over Seth. He had to think fast.
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  “I, uh, could bring out some food,” Seth said, hoping they’d let him go inside and that his dad would be home already. Then he’d show these guys.

  The old man spoke, his voice a growl. “No, kid. We didn’t come for supper.”

  Seth stared down at the yellow circle of light on the dirt floor.

  “We’re here,” he continued, “to make sure you don’t crawl like a cockroach into the light. You know what a cockroach does? Look at me.”

  Seth forced himself to look at the man’s face.

  When he did, Clancy turned the flashlight up under his whiskered chin, creating shadowy streaks across his greasy face. The man smiled, revealing black holes between his teeth. Seth shuddered.

  “A cockroach stays where it’s dark—like under the stove—so nobody will come along and squish him with their shoe.” Clancy coughed, then dropped his cigarette butt onto the dirt floor and ground his heel into it. “Now, you don’t want to get in our way, do you?”

  “No.” Seth shook his head.

  The younger man reached down and picked Seth up by his jacket shoulders. He held him for a long second, just staring at him with eyes dark as ice-fishing holes. Then he whispered, “Do you like your family?”

  “Yes,” Seth croaked.

  “Then keep this to yourself, or somebody might get hurt.”

  The poacher dropped him. As Seth landed on his feet, the man punched him across the side of the face. Seth crashed into the bales of straw.

  Everything went black. He couldn’t move. His body seemed disconnected from his brain, as it felt in nightmares when he’d try to move but couldn’t. Yet he could hear.

  “Why’d you hit him that hard, Robert?” Clancy said.

  “To scare him good. I don’t want to have to come back a second time …,” Robert said, “to finish the job.”