Miracle Cure

White chalky dust was still settling in the parking lot of the Rainbow Bar as Jim Thoresson went suddenly and temporarily blind when stepping from the intense sunshine into the dungeon-like interior of the bar. He didn't notice the smells of perspiration, stale beer, cigarette smoke, or cheap cologne because a person can't segregate his own smell from similar and equally offensive odors.

"Any of you guys seen Roy Atherton, lately." Jim Thoresson asked wearing a worried expression as he joined the clutch of usual patrons and questionable friends who were sitting near the pool table. His soft flesh undulated like jello for a couple of seconds after his last step. He spilled the first ten percent of his freshly poured mug of beer. "Goddammit." He said then brushed his shirt, a senseless effort done too late that added another smear to a collage of stains, among them mustard yellow and catsup red.
"Not since last Saturday. I saw him at the Mobil station. Said he had a taste for some venison stew." Charlie Fox, said, smiling. He was eyeing an easy shot on the eight ball and already adding a ten-spot to whatever he had left in his pocket. Charlie had the long black hair common to the Chippewa. He had a ragged scar across his face from above his left eye, down his cheek, and all the way to his chin. He claimed it was a deer hoof, but most figured it was multiple knife cuts.
"Figures," Jim Thoresson said, "and they'll catch that son-of-a-bitch poachin and they'll confiscate the goddam pickup that he ain't made payment one on yet. I knew better. Never should have sold that worthless heap of horse shit anything on credit."

There was sudden, uproarious laughter and Jim cringed knowing that it was totally at his expense.

"Did you bump your fuckin head, Jim. You gave Roy credit? On a fuckin car?" There was another round of hoots, howls, and explosive laughter and most of the voices had the cutting edge of ridicule. Trapper John continued. "Roy'd sooner shoot you than make a dime payment on anything. Hell, he'd have to pay you in beaver pelts or something anyway. That guy hasn't worked a day since I've known him, and that's way too goddam long." Trapper rolled a ten dollar bill and threw it angrily at Charlie Fox who was wearing a victorious and predatory smile. A corner was chipped off one of his front teeth but other than that he had the perfect bright ivory rows common to native Americans. 
"Aw damn." Jim said, slugging down a mouthful of cold beer and hanging his head as the feeling of hopeless desperation put its cold clammy arms around him. He might have to make the payments himself, and if so, he'd also starve. He hadn't sold a car in two weeks.

"Saw him at the rifle range last week." Bob Crowson said from the end of the table where his chair was in the shadows pushed away from the table. He didn't like crowds and he needed a lot more personal space than most people. He was a recluse all week long and seldom socialized on the weekends these days. It was no coincidence that he was mostly hidden in the dark shadows.

"He must've stolen a new rifle then. Because a day doesn't go by when he doesn't check out the accuracy of his Springfield by shootin somethin or someone with it." Charlie Fox said, then laughed. His laughter was deep and malicious and made a lot of people cringe imagining the sick and twisted thoughts behind it. It had no effect here among this less than civilized pack.

"It was a different gun. A cannon. One of them three-forty-eights. Thought he was gonna blow the hill away every time he touched it off." Crowson said in his quiet emotionless tone. "Must cost five bucks every trigger pull. Them big old belted magnums is goddam expensive."
"Where the hell would Roy get a three-forty-eight Winchester Magnum?" Mark Brindle said, sounding suspicious and accusational.
"That's easy enough to ferret out," Trapper John said, "check the recent crimes list under break-ins in the Resorter." He sneered.

~

But the real question was, why did Roy think he needed a cannon like that?


Trapper John fell into deep thought stirred up by his instincts who were demanding to be heard.

Roy had been spending a lot of time in and near Hunterlost Swamp. Roy never did anything that involved effort unless there was a pot of gold at the end of that despised labor.

The rusty wail of an opening door suddenly muted the nonsensical banter at the table. Only Trapper could see who came in but the others knew by his facial expression not to continue jabbering carelessly about their conquests that for the most part were also considered crimes. There wasn't a non-poacher in the bar save for Sherry the barmaid. 

Hard leather heels on the old pine floor said that the new arrival was coming their way. Along with the loud footsteps there was the jangle of handcuffs that all present recognized too well. An eight cell flashlight was slapping against leather and alarms were going off in all heads. Neck hairs were bristling as if they were standing in the O.K. Corral listening to Wyatt Earp's spurs as he slowly approached with squinting eyes picking out the ones he'd kill first. Every man was on guard and defensively listing things that they would not say, and fabricating things that they would say that were designed to project innocence no matter what the current accusation was. Something was behind this unwanted visit. There always was.

Every man at the table had good reason to fear Deputy Sheriff, Sonny Hawkins who began to speak. "I don't suppose any of you gentlemen have seen ole Roy Atherton, have you?"

Negative responses came from every mouth in grunts and groans, and a lot of different words that all meant the same thing, that no, pig, we haven't seen him in a long time, and their tones inferred, why don't you fuck off!

"What's he s'posed to have done this time, Sonny?" Trapper asked, indifferently.
"Nothing. He's been missing a few days and his daughter's been calling and looking for him."
"Hard to believe he has a daughter or any kin who'd gives a dead rat's ass where he is." Charlie Fox interjected bitterly, his voice laced with hatred as cutting as the rusty jagged-edged razor that had scarred his face. "I've been looking for him too." Jim Thoresson said without thinking.
"Why?" Sonny asked, "did you sell him one of your rust buckets for about a hundred times what it was worth?" Sonny laughed. He knew he had. He'd run the VIN number just to make sure it wasn't a stolen vehicle.  Sonny hated to miss an opportunity to fuck up somebody's day, especially a member of this pack of jackals.

Jim Thoresson was on Sonny's shit-list, and the same held true for every son-of-a-bitch at that end of the bar. They were poachers and thieves, and far worse if the truth were known as far as Sonny was concerned. Sonny had them pre-convicted and sentenced to a life of misery in his twisted mind, a place as dark and cruel as any medieval dungeon. But he had to settle for harassment instead of thumbscrews or, even better, drawing-and-quartering. Sonny would have loved to see four spooked and fleeing horses rip off the arms and legs of a man. Something like that would have drawn a huge paying crowd in the red states these days where biblical punishment was still considered just penance for certain sins. 

Sonny's cop-nose smelled pot. He also knew that most of them would blow past the legal limit if they drove from the bar parking lot at that moment. He'd popped most of them in the past for drunk driving and for an assortment of other minor crimes. But, there were unsolved crimes, meatier ones, that his instincts informed him the perpetrators were members of this pack and within an arm's reach. A couple of high level busts like that would net him Don Pike's job as Sheriff. There was a forty percent salary increase in the balance. No small change there.

Jim kept silent and was purposely biting his tongue inflicting enough pain to remind him not to piss Sonny off more than he already was. There'd be hell to pay if the deputy decided to make his threat good and run every Vehicle Identification Number in the entire used car lot where he worked. At the very least the owner Sam Horner would fire him. At worst, they could both be charged with car theft. There was a good chance that not all the paperwork was legitimate or original on one or more of the cars.

Sonny panned from face to face before speaking again. "You guys are sure you haven't seen good ole Roy? He wouldn't be out there poachin or anything foolish like that, eh?" Sonny listened to the silence he knew was coming. "Well, gentlemen, if you do happen to see him, tell the worthless son-of-a-bitch to call his daughter. She sounds like nice people. Sounds worried. Sounds like she cares. Must've been fathered by the mailman or the guy next door, someone other than Roy anyway. She doesn't look anything like the underside of a slug covered rock like he does. She's got straight white teeth, too. Hard to believe they'd be related." Sonny lit a cigarette. Then he looked every man straight in the eyes going around the room. "Another thing, gentlemen, if you know who's been shinin deer on the Wolverine back roads, better tell him to stay in his fuckin hole. I'm gonna be helping the DNR boys and I have this strong urge to shoot at bright lights with my brand spankin new, Three-hundred Winchester Magnum. I'm curious to find out if it will taste its first blood from a human or an animal. Or, in present company, probably a mix of both, but mostly polecat. In fact it smells of polecat in here, that or marijuana."

Sonny laughed and headed for the door with his hand on the butt of his forty-four Ruger.

An instant before Deputy Sheriff Sonny Hawkins stepped out into the searing platinum sunlight he noticed Sherry, the barmaid, approaching. This stopped him in his tracks.
"What brings you here, Sonny?"
"Hunting for Roy. Seen him?"
"Not for over a week." Sherry said, smiling.
"I hope your good luck keeps up, then." Sonny said, smiling. "But his daughter, if you can believe he has one, is worried about him because she can't get him on the phone."
"I'll call you if I see him or hear anything, Sonny." Sherry said, flirting. She was a little closer than she should be, and the third unlatched button on her blouse was no accident. She stood in a way that contorted and distorted the V-neck of her blouse billowing it and exposing more than the usual cleavage, a ploy that was premeditated, arranged, and perfected back in the kitchen. She had posed in different ways and checked the results in the mirror. She had a hand on her hip and her torso was twisted just so and she had Sonny's curious and trespassing, eyes. They weren't just teased and lured to the bait, but they moved slowly over her curves like brushing hands and teasing fingers.

"Uh, maybe I'll uh, call you Saturday, Sherry. I mean if you don't already have plans." Sonny said, all traces of authority gone from his now timid and unsure voice.
"Yes, call me. I don't have anything special planned, yet."
"Yeah, I'll call. I, uh, gotta go now. Police business." Sonny said, needing to get out of there before the guys noticed his basic insecurity, or worse, his inexperience with women that was now on public display in front of this pack of rats. Anything but authority and show of force was revealing a chink in his armor to those who'd slit his throat given the opportunity. 

~

Charlie Fox looked at Sonny's long thin neck and he was secretly honing his hunting knife to a razor edge in a hazy intoxicated daydream. He shook the images off. He couldn't quite do it anyway not when he was still somewhat sober. He finished the last third of his beer in a long guzzle. His closing thought was that the world sure wouldn't miss Sonny if something ever happened to him, Something like a stray bullet during deer hunting season. Charlie's smile had a maniacal edge to it as it slipped into an unknown dimension somewhere between real and dream. It might have been the hateful replaying of his true vision quest, the one where he was a rabbit and about to feel the ripping and disemboweling talons of the plummeting hawk. In his sacred vision quest Charlie Fox was nothing but eviscerated entrails left to scavengers after the flesh was eaten. So instead of relating that sad sick truth, Charlie told a contrived story about a crazed fox preying on many rabbits, and he proudly wore the stolen name, Mad Fox, ever since. 

"Bye Sonny." Sherry said, smiling, obviously pleased having stirred Sonny up to the point that he had to leave because his flag was at half mast. She twirled full circle in a dance step before heading off to reluctantly serve a mug of beer to Charlie Fox. There was always music playing in Sherry's head, and the lyrics always contained words that were more at home on shit house walls than in the country songs playing in her head.

Something jerked Charlie back into conscious reality. "Why do you even talk to that prick?" Charlie asked as he took the beer from Sherry. "You workin off a ticket? Payin him back for not bustin ya?"

"That's my friggin business Charlie. And you'd better walk home from here tonight. You'll never drive again, not if Sonny busts you a third time."
Charlie mumbled some curses beneath his breath. Sherry heard something to the effect that Charlie'd love to take deputy dumb-ass bear hunting on tribal land. He was fading into an alcoholic haze very suddenly like he often did.

Sherry tried not to assign any value to Charlie's words. She'd heard it all before. There weren't many regulars who hadn't been busted by Sonny at one time or another so they all had an axe to grind. And, no doubt about it, Sonny had a mean streak and could turn him into an overbearing asshole in half a heartbeat. Sherry took the mug of beer back and dumped it into the sink. Charlie was asleep and Sherry thought that was probably a good thing.

Had he been sober enough to talk to, she'd question him about his references to her working off a ticket. She knew he was implying that she was trading sex to keep from being busted.

~

She'd heard those rumors too. In fact she painted over graffiti in the men's john a few weeks ago that supported those rumors about Sonny trading leniency or legal favors for a little bobbin or bouncin in the back seat of his cruiser. That graffiti mentioned three names of women who were supposedly made regular payments. Maybe she'd just skip to the chase and ask them. She couldn't imagine Sonny being like that. But, if he was, she needed to know. Her instincts said almost the opposite, but her instincts had failed her often.

~

Trapper had stared at Sonny's chest where his heart should have been. Trapper wore that same particularly intense expression every time he aligned crosshairs then triggered an explosion that sent the bullet that obliterated the heart of animal or man instantly snuffing the light of life from the victim's eyes. He broke away from those old and bitter memories because there were more important things to consider now. Vengeance would come later.

What the hell did Roy need a bigger gun for?

Trapper was sifting through his memory with detailed precision looking for anything that would shed some light on the mystery. Then he remembered the last time he camped with Roy when they were running coons at night. Roy had made it back to camp first and found the whiskey that Trapper had hidden beneath his sleeping bag in the tent. By the time Trapper came in and bandaged up two wounded hounds, Roy had passed out. He was talking gibberish in his sleep. Well, it had seemed like gibberish at the time. Trapper was remembering words and phrases that came randomly as Roy tossed and turned dodging and battling the demons in his insane and trauma-riddled dreams. He was kicking and punching at some horrific ghosts or demons that night.

Trapper went over the words he remembered, filling in the ones Roy omitted or mumbled in incoherent fragments.

The Cinnamon Devil. Scat as big around as Budweiser cans. I wounded the fucker. Gonna call him Four-Toes. Follow the yellow dog or else the quicksand or peat bogs'll get ya. They'll swallow your ass up. Not much blood. Color's too light, Bad fuckin shot. Never return from Hunterlost. Yellow dog's gonna get tore up bad. One swipe and he's a goner. Venison thief! Yellow dog's got balls. Run yellow dog. Four Toes can't get ya there. Can't fit 'tween them oaks. Mr. Big Fuckin Bear would love t' tear them scrubs down and eat your dog ass. But he can't do that. Ya outsmarted the big furry fucker.

Between the sporadic and often far apart occurrences of sleep-talk Roy laughed the same insane and mocking way he did when conscious and awake.

Roy always laughed hardest when someone was hurt, embarrassed, or experiencing some bad luck. Most people who knew him very well called him a sick fuck. He wore that title with the same pride that a soldier wears a medal of honor. But, there wasn't a trace of honor in Roy Atherton. Not a trace of loyalty either, Trapper thought, as he tried to fit all the puzzle pieces together.

~

Something told Trapper that Roy never would return from Hunterlost Swamp until it gave up its dead the same time that the seas did, at the end of the world and after the proverbial and envisioned battle of Armageddon.

According to Trapper's grandmother who raised him with a strict hand and a balled fist, men truly deserved annihilation for their innate wickedness and sinful ways.

Trapper could see his grandmother's twisted lips spitting the bible's words at him and condemning him to Hell-fire and brimstone. Sins ranging from a hole worn in a sock to a grass stain on his shirt or his jeans earned the same exaggerated and unfair penance. There was always a sin and it was always accented with her fist pounding on the family bible. You'll spend eternity with your wicked whore of a mother. Trapper had often noticed the deep impression on the face of that thick bible made by that bony and vicious fist powered by hatred of the devil and everything that she associated with him, which included damned near everything and everyone.

Trapper couldn't rid his mind of the hateful image of his grandmother's thin and twisted mouth. The most fearful and vile things were spewed by her dry, cracking, almost white lips that were always contorted grotesquely with hate and were as ugly and frightening as the words they spat at him. They were pale and lifeless as if frozen like her heart.

To this day Trapper trembled when he recalled a bath night from back when he was about nine years old. "If I ever catch you playing with that thing," she touched his penis with the bar of soap, "I'll cut it off with a butcher knife. That's what I should have done to your grandfather before he fathered that whore of a mother of yours. Good riddance to bad rubbish. That goes for the both of 'em. That goes for the seed of their sinful, wicked loins too." Then she'd glare hatefully at John as if she saw him, a helpless little boy, burning in Hell's fire for the sins of his mother, and for his original sin,  being born out of wedlock.

Trapper drifted back into the present. Roy's disappearance bothered him, but it also offered opportunities. Now that Roy Atherton wasn't standing guard over his territory it was high time to locate his pot patches. Atherton's pot patches were parented by prime British Columbian seed and had phenomenal THC levels. Hell, the THC dripped right out of the end of the joint as it took you away.

Roy, as worthless as he was in most respects, had earned his eagle feather for cultivating some powerful shit. It was capable of generating a lot more cash than Roy ever milked out of it, him being the laziest bastard that ever slithered or crawled the face of the earth.

Trapper would tap that resource to the fullest while the cat was away. Or maybe this cat was dead, having used up all his nine lives, and probably a few more. In the latter case he'd expand the operation and run some of the dope downstate where the big money was.

Trapper assumed Roy was another victim of Hunterlost Swamp. He wondered how many men Hunterlost had claimed in total. He envisioned bleached white bones against the black muck of the swamp floor. More likely the bones were buried under a few feet of the black slime that smelled like an open sewer when stirred up by wading boots. There'd be bones of Chippewa, Ottawa, and Potowatomi buried in the slimy, black ooze of Hunterlost, all of them better men than Roy.

Trapper was interested in Michigan Indians and considered himself to be one of their brothers because he lived off the land much as they had. Those three Michigan tribes comprised the united federation called the Three Fires who initially joined forces to defeat the Iroquois who came from their home grounds around Lake Ontario.

~
In the next weeks, Trapper spent a lot of time watching the big dog called, Bruin. It was a fitting name considering that he was nearly as big as a bear. But the dog was a happy-go-lucky beast that was only concerned about bitches in heat and hand-outs of meat. It was difficult to have a barbecue without the beggar showing up. That's how Trapper lured the Bruin to the northern limits of Meadow Bend where meadow and reclaimed pasture gave way to the expansive and eerie swamp, Hunterlost. It would have made a perfect setting for a horror movie. An eerie mist was rising and hampering his vision but every once in awhile an animal's eye glowed sending a chill up his spine.

Trapper cooked hamburgers on a grill every afternoon moving it incrementally closer to the swamp. Eventually he lured the big dog, to the dangerous game trails that led into the belly of the collected peat bogs, float islands, and quicksand traps. Like the deer and bear who lived there, Bruin's nose and collective acute senses guided him around the traps that would make permanent ghosts of careless and foolhardy humans.

But after a dozen attempts to keep up with the dog who instinctively knew all the safe routes into the heart of the swamp, Trapper had been left behind every time. Once, he sweated getting out alive. One bad turn had him backtracking at sundown and pre-testing every bit of earth in his path. There had been dozens of float islands that could have sunk beneath his weight and swallowed him up. He barely made it back to the marked trail before dark. It had been a life threatening situation and Trappers heart was thudding like a single cylinder engine. He hadn't gone twenty steps into sweet freedom when the big dog bounded out of dense brush onto the trail scaring the hell out of him. Bruin was wagging his tail happily in hopes the human was going to cook meat for him again. Trapper had the control and presence of mind to not kick the dog hard like he wanted to, knowing that the beast could probably tear him into jerky and leave him for the ravens and other carrion eaters.

Although he seemed friendly, almost puppy-like, this dog had been living off the land and seemed to be the master of it in the immediate surrounds. He was without doubt the alpha male in these parts and there were some monstrously big pups that looked a lot like him to prove it. Fewer farmers hadn't shot at him than had. It was usually Jennifer Hunter, owner of the Thorn And Thistle Herb Shop that removed the bird shot with tweezers and doctored him back up.

Trapper smiled remembering how furious Jennifer Hunter was when she addressed them all at the top of her lungs accusing one of the pack of hunters, poachers, and general no-accounts of such a cruel, vicious, and cowardly act of shooting a helpless dog. Trapper hadn't shot-gunned the big mutt so he watched the other faces to discern who the guilty one was. Trapper couldn't care less about the damned dog, but he did care if this chicken-shit act brought even more attention from the law down on all of them because of it. One look at Roy Atherton indicted and convicted the Son-of-a-bitch. Trapper was absolutely certain that Roy shot the damned dog. But Roy'd lie straight–faced if he asked him about it. Roy and the truth were distant strangers unless the truth would serve him better than a lie in a particular case.

Everyone watched Jennifer disappear into the searing bright sunshine that pained all eyes. Laughter rang out immediately afterward and members of the pack began interrogating each other eager to know who was guilty of doing what any one of them would do without thinking twice.

Trapper took Roy Atherton aside at the time and demanded to know if he did it.
"Only reason she had to pick buckshot outa his dumb ass is because I set off the wrong barrel. That should've been buckshot and the ravens oughta be eatin his rotten ass right now. That fuckin dog cost me a big fat corn-fed doe. Let Sonny come after me in the swamp. Nothin I'd love more than to donate deputy dumb-ass to the ghosts of Hunterlost. Let him howl and prowl on full moons along with all the other careless and stupid spirits. I'd love to make him into a good cop." 

~

At the time Trapper had wondered how many ghosts Roy Atherton personally donated to Hunterlost. Roy wasn't to be questioned further, not if Trapper wanted to sleep well at night and wake up in the morning without his throat slit. People who screwed with Roy often had serious accidents a month or two later. This was a repeating pattern. Roy was always out of town when it happened, and always with people who corroborated his stories.

Recently Trapper had watched Bruin follow bear tracks into the swamp proving he had neither fear nor much respect for their owners.

Having gotten lost three times in the bowels of that godforsaken place and making it to safety each time meant that Trapper had most likely used up all his luck in that respect. Along with the religion forced on him by his grandmother, came other fear–stirring superstitions that imprisoned Trapper's inner child in a memory. When his brain went quiet for too long he'd be in the bathtub again, and instead of a bar of soap, his wicked grandmother had a butcher knife and she was about to slice his evil organ off because it was god's will.

So many times in Trapper's life he was torn from a nightmare and hurled into wakefulness with the image of his grandmother's twisted hateful lips spitting those same vile words as she held his severed and bloody cock and balls in her arthritic and gnarled hands. It was the only time her leathery old skin and sparse flesh formed a smile, albeit a wicked one. The smile of vengeance. The smile of righteousness. The smile that made Trapper fully aware that he was evil through and through.

Trapper jerked himself from his internal dungeon and back into the present.


Trapper wanted to follow Bruin as he bounded after something completely lost to weak human sight and hearing, but decided this was not the time to test fate again. It was close to sundown and the swamp would be pitch black this overcast and moonless night. 

~

Trapper had beat a manslaughter charge that would have put anyone else behind bars for years. That was the nearest thing to a miracle he'd seen in his thirty-two years of life.

It was by accident that they discovered that the man whose throat he slit in a bar fight turned out to be a serial rapist and was identified by seven different young female victims. Although that evidence wasn't supposed to carry any weight in Trapper's particular case, it damned sure did. If it hadn't his permanent address would still be Baraga Prison, a maximum security penitentiary in the upper peninsula of Michigan.

~

Trapper pondered the collective facts. Roy was a liar first in the order of his recognizable human traits. In reality, Roy lied when the truth would serve him better. He was a hopeless compulsive liar and would remain so as long as he drew breath. And quite possibly he wasn't doing any breathing anymore. If so, it was no loss. Although Trapper didn't believe much of what Roy mumbled in sleep, but certain lucrative possibilities intrigued him so Trapper tried to recall in detail Roy's nightmarish rants. 

Two-feather, a Chippewa Indian who gathered spring morels in Hunterlost once told him that he saw a bear with Cinnamon fur that was bigger than any he'd ever seen. But, after he told the story he got stoned on the same home-grown that he raised in scattered patches of meadow within Hunterlost where neither DEA or DNR rangers had balls enough to venture. Since Two-feather was known for conjuring up weird visions then assigning magical powers to its mystical characters, this was taken with a heaping tablespoon of salt. Two Feather usually disappeared after the spring mushroom season each year but unlike in the past, he didn't come back for the last two. Upscale restaurants missed him and looked for him because he supplied them with the precious morel mushrooms.

But Two-feather was old and might have died. Or he may have lost his next knife fight. He had an impressive collection of scars on and about his face and neck, and, any one of them could have made him a resident of the happy hunting grounds long ago. Just as likely, a husband arriving home early from work could have shot his ass or cut off Two-feather's favorite weapon, the one he'd been sticking into the wrong places. Basically, the simple underlying fact that Two-feather was an antagonistic prick and a womanizer could have closed his book-of-life early.

But then too, maybe the great cinnamon bear from his own invented folklore gobbled his leathery old ass up. Trapper smiled after the last thought, admitting that Two-feather knew Hunterlost Swamp even better than the animals who lived there. Trapper had to give the old bastard credit for that, but he'd never miss him and he never trusted him.

~
Nine days earlier, Roy Atherton dragged the carcass of the deer to the spot where the bear had left his mark high on an aspen tree. On nearby oaks and ironwood trees he found tufts of Cinnamon fur where the bear had scratched his back and tore off bark in the process. Roy had to stand on tiptoes to touch the damaged pale sapwood where the bears huge canine teeth punched deep holes then ripped away a big chunk of sapwood.

The animal's paws were a full third larger than any Roy had seen, including the ones up in British Columbia, where they grow at an escalated rate because of the dense population of marmots. Those huge rodents provided an endless source of high protein and fat, almost equal to the windfall food source available to Kodiak bears on Kodiak Island, the annual salmon runs. 

Constantly scanning the perimeter and keeping track of the wind's direction, Roy nervously executed his plan for baiting and killing the Cinnamon Devil and then selling the impressive trophy to a wealthy hunter, the same one he'd sold poached trophies to before.

Some were already mounted and sitting in his den back downstate in Bloomfield Hills. Each had a fictional hero-like story that dramatized the rich man's hunting prowess and bravery. But in truth, this man preferred playing cards in between bouts of sex with the college coeds who annually serviced, and if they could, exploited, the wealthy downstaters during hunting season. More than a few coeds came down from Northern Michigan University to work the seasonal trade. Many put themselves through NMU this way. Roy thought, wouldn't their pompous rich parents be so proud if they could see what their daughters were willing to do for drugs, or for the money to buy drugs. 

Roy Atherton thought he was about to get lucky after buying a young woman a couple of drinks with silly umbrellas in them. But then she admitted, "I screwed my way to a doctorate." She giggled, drunkenly. She was still high on coke long after screwing Mark Ryan all day while most of his wealthy fellow sportsman beat around in the woods looking for game. He milked the coed for information relative to just how rich various members of the exclusive hunt club were. Roy was respected by the rich hunters because he looked like a mountain man and lived in the deep woods. It appealed to the hunter and warrior archetype in these soft city boys who were afraid to piss alone in the damned dark.

Mark Ryan was the wealthiest man that Roy Atherton even knew and Roy needed some money, a lot of money. 

After listening to whispered rumors and stories eluding to the fact that a great bear was living in the area, the rich guy became seriously interested. He told Poacher Roy, that he'd pay dearly for such a bear. Roy, of course, kept repeating and embellishing the old Indian's story.

Lying, as always, Roy always ended the story in the same way. "Last time I saw Two-feather, he was heading off into Hunterlost Swamp to kill the great cinnamon bear.  Poor bastard never came back out."

~

Mark Ryan scanned the dark tall wood surrounds nervously his sweating hands clutching a new three-forty Weatherby magnum rifle. Every tiny sound, every scampering creature of the night turned into the great cinnamon bear who was going to charge at them at any moment. It was the response Roy Atherton expected after telling the story in the low and dying light of a flickering campfire. It was a perfect contrived and premeditated setting for Roy's wildly dramatic tale of the marauding great cinnamon bear and how he most likely circled back around to get behind Two-feather who was tracking the beast with intent to kill. Instead, the bear was as wise as he was professed to be in Two-feather's own tales, and with one swipe of a massive paw, the Cinnamon Devil sent Two-feather to the happy hunting grounds in the form or a heaping pile of bear shit. Roy Atherton said that his forefathers would never be able to sort Two-feather out from the little pieces in that steaming pile of dung.

Roy Atherton had made a plaster cast from one of the great bear's tracks. After the story he put it right under Mark Ryan's nose.

"One swipe from a paw this size would take a man's head clean off, or bust him in two. Just imagine the size of the beast who owns a paw like that."

Ryan visibly shuddered for a moment as his mind imagined the final scene where Two-feather drew his last breath. He imagined the poor old bastard's terror-stricken final moment knowing for certain he was about to die.

Ryan pretended to be cold and heaped kindling onto the fire.

Roy smiled inside knowing the rich wimp was after light, not heat. He'd sunk the hook deep into the sucker but there was one final drama that would put the man into the palm of Atherton's hand and guarantee he'd get all the money he needed from the trophy bear.

"Mr. Ryan, I have something to show you, something I haven't shown to anyone else, ever. Bring your rifle, and follow me close. Do nothing unless I tell you to. Do you understand?"
"I understand. Where are we going?"
"I'm gonna show ya the monster's marking tree."
"Well…uh…is that…uh…wise? Can't we see it in daylight, like maybe tomorrow morning?"
"No, he's more likely to be there in daylight. Believe me, this is the best time." Roy Atherton said, handing Ryan an empty coffee can.
"What's this for."
"That's for keeping us safe. I'll have my rifle ready at all times because I'm a good instinct shooter. You put a few stones in that and keep rattling it. It warns the bear so you don't come up on it suddenly and get attacked. Remember, there's a lot of smaller normal size bears in this area because of the berries. By the way, you don't have any open wounds do you?"
"No. Why?" Ryan asked instantly, apprehensively.
"The smell of blood. They can smell a small wound under bandages. It's why there's warning signs in bear territory alerting women on their periods to not hike in bear territory."
"Yeah, yeah. I read that somewhere out west."


"Keep rattling, Mr. Ryan, we're getting close." Roy Atherton said as he got lower to the ground and began scanning anxiously sweeping the path ahead. They were nearing the swamp and could smell the earthen musk and their boots made sucking sounds as they pulled them out of the wet muck with every step.

Roy Atherton was literally biting his tongue to keep from busting a gut laughing. Ryan was making more noise rattling that can of stones than a fucking three hundred car train coming down bumpy tracks.

"There's his tree. Stop!" Roy commanded. "Stop rattling so I can listen close. Because, if he's here…then he's stalking us. Just hope the noise sent him running. It usually does. Make sure you keep the safety on your rifle until I say otherwise." Atherton said, realizing he didn't want this scared-to-death weenie to shoot a three-forty magnum up his ass killing him over the next scampering field mouse. "In fact, Mr. Ryan, if you have a cartridge chambered, remove it and put it back into the clip."
"B-but, what if--"
"Do it Mr. Ryan. I'm ready for anything. I will get off the first two shots. You chamber a round if and when I start shooting. Got that?"

Atherton watched as Ryan did as he was told. He looked around nervously so often that it took forever. His hands were shaking to the point that the brass case rattled and buzzed against the rifle's hardened steel bolt action. All this confirmed that Atherton was doing the right thing. This rich brave hunter was on the verge of pissing his pants already.

"Alright now, get down and don't make a sound. I'm gonna flash a light out ahead of us but just for a couple seconds. That's so he can't use the light to aim his charge at us."
"We can do this some other time, Atherton." Ryan said, voice quavering at a higher than normal pitch. It sounded to Atherton like Ryan he was turning into a pussy with each rapid beat of his heart. He was very glad there was no round chambered in that Weatherby death-gripped in his sweaty hands.

Ryan held his breath as Atherton flashed the light on the narrow game-trail and the big aspen tree ahead.

To Be Cintinued...