Alone in the Wild (Rockton #5)(28)
THIRTEEN
When the young settlers are gone, I say to Dalton, “Were you okay with that? I didn’t promise her a rifle.”
“If I wasn’t okay with it, I’d have said so. It’s worth considering. Those boys might be vying for her hand, but they don’t interrupt when she talks. That means Edwin is grooming her for leadership. She seems smart, levelheaded. Wanting to trade for her own hunting rifle is reasonable. I’d make it a hard bargain, but I wouldn’t discount it.”
He slows to adjust the baby, stirring from sleep. She fusses, but a few pats and rubs on her back quiet her.
Dalton resumes talking. “So, the gun that killed the woman didn’t come from the First Settlement. That helps.”
“It does.
“As for the baby’s family, if they’re as bad as Edwin and Felicity say…” I inhale. “I don’t know what to do about that.”
He takes a few more steps, and then says, his voice lower, “Yeah, you do. We both do. We wouldn’t find a beaten dog in the forest and return it to abusive owners. It’s a tough call, but we have to make the choice we can live with. The problem is judging…”
“How bad is too bad?” I say.
“Yeah.”
He goes quiet after that, and I think he’s going to stay that way until we reach the snowmobile. Then he straightens and says, “Main thing now is finding them. I know Edwin says they don’t overwinter around here, but the baby hasn’t been away from her mother for long. They must be within a day’s walk.”
I’m about to say that we’ll have time to do that today before being stopped by the immovable obstacle of winter. Night. We can’t make it before darkness falls.
Dalton has already figured this out and continues with, “We’ll head back to Rockton for the night, and then tomorrow, we’ll go find Jacob…” He trails off, cursing as he remembers his brother isn’t around.
“Tyrone?” I say.
He grumbles but says, “Yeah, we’ll find Ty. See what he knows about these traders.”
* * *
The next morning, we take the baby to Jen’s place for the day. We expect to be coming back after talking to Cypher, so there’s no reason to cart her along. Instead, we take Storm. We’d considered riding the horses, but snow fell overnight, and it’s still falling the next morning. So we strap on snowshoes and head out.
Of all the “mobility tools” in Rockton, snowshoes are my least favorite. Dalton jokes that’s because—as opposed to the horses, ATVs, and snowmobiles—snowshoes require actual physical effort. It’s not just effort, though, it’s serious effort, more than walking, which seems to defy the purpose of a mobility tool. Except that … well, if we’re using snowshoes, it’s because walking in boots wouldn’t be faster or easier.
Our weekend trip had been along groomed paths. This walk will have a lot more backwoods hiking, and each step is like clomping down into knee-high mud. Snowshoes keep you on the surface, even if they’re hellishly awkward to use. Or they are for me. Dalton’s fine with them. He says I just need more practice. Since that means more trudging around in snowshoes, I’ll stick to amateur status.
If I will grudgingly admit to one advantage to snowshoes, it’s that they’re excellent for hunting. They move nearly as silently as cross-country skis, and yes, I’ve suggested those to Dalton. He’s hesitating because that’s a mode of transport he’s not accustomed to, and God forbid he should struggle. Admittedly, he’s not sure how well they’ll work in this environment. Maybe I’ll ask for a cheap pair for Christmas to test them.
I might have been hired as a homicide detective, but my self-assigned secondary role is transportation chief, the chick who will ultimately bring to Rockton every possible—and possibly fun—way to traverse the wilderness. Dirt bike, dogsled, and soon, cross-country skis. Dalton doesn’t appreciate my efforts nearly as much as he should, perhaps not surprising given that he’s spent his career trying to convince residents that traveling outside of the town is not fun, not fun at all.
Since we have the snowshoes and we’re heading into a game-rich area, we both carry rifles slung over our shoulders. We’ve also brought a makeshift harness and canvas “sled bag” for Storm to bring back any larger game.
For now, Storm is free to romp through the snow. We’ve shot four ptarmigan, but Dalton has those slung over his shoulder.
Down south, I’d known plenty of cops who hunted, and some would invite me. I never accepted. I wasn’t rabidly against hunting. As a nonvegetarian, I’d be hypocritical to judge anyone for killing their own meat. I just wasn’t always convinced that my colleagues hunted for meat. Sure, they’d get some of their kill carved up, but most of that stayed at the bottom of their freezer, an excuse for the sport.
Up here, it’s all about utility. Meat, fur, even the feathers to stuff pillows and jackets. Nothing is sport. Nothing is waste. That’s the type of hunting I can endorse, though neither of us will pretend there isn’t pleasure to be had in the thrill of a well-aimed shot.
We have a good three-hour hike ahead of us. Tyrone Cypher is wintering at a cabin he “inherited” when the former owner was killed by our resident cougar.