When the strike dog caught a scent, it would make a ruckus. The hunter would dismount, release the strike dog and the pack, and follow them on foot. Other hunters in the group would chase around on nearby roads guessing where the bear would cross and hoping for an intercept. Ultimately they’d try to get the dogs to tree the animal, then kill it at their leisure. In some ways it was like a small military operation, with trucks fishtailing and bouncing all over the back roads, the hunters all jacked up on adrenaline and sometimes on alcohol or more, and all of them with primitive eyes beamed in on the kill to come. The hunters communicated by CB or FRS radios and talked like a bunch of infantry wannabes.
He had encountered a few bear hunters in the Mosquito from time to time, but not many. The terrain harbored a sizeable population of animals, but it was wild and almost totally roadless, which made doghunting demanding. Owners valued their dogs too much to risk losing them in bad country. Mostly he had found baiters in the wilderness area.
The Kentucky truck was dark, its hood cold, no sign of the hunters.
“They should’ve been out thirty minutes ago,” McCants said.
“Doubt they’ll sit in there all night,” Service said. Bear hunters were an odd breed, a blend of fearlessness and superstitions, coupled with some shining examples of pure stupidity.
“Their trail’s clear as a highway,” she said.
They walked up the trail in the dark, moving slowly and listening. When they got to a small rise that faded gently down to a cedar swamp, they stopped and squatted. Service heard his knees creak but ignored the sound. The weather was cooling, damp. There were pieces of bait along the trail and four beer cans, one of which McCants toed with her boot. “Wingnuts,” she said, adding the can to others she had picked up.
“The river’s about three hundred yards,” he said, remembering the terrain like it was his own skin. Bears nearly always traveled in heavy cover and preferred creek- and riverbeds near swamps with access to hardwoods and mast crops.
Service wanted a cigarette but didn’t light up. Smoke traveled in the forest and the ember could be seen in such darkness. The first skill of officers was the ability to remain invisible until they chose to appear magically.
“Good place to wait,” McCants said.
He agreed and stretched, feeling achy. Stopping hunters at night always entailed risk, more if alcohol was involved. McCants showed good judgment in calling for help. If the department had the people they needed, somebody else would be here. Maybe this was a preview of the year ahead, he thought. With Nantz at the academy, how was he supposed to look after Walter? This was worrisome.
“Need more beer,” a voice growled below them.
“Less be more,” a second voice said. “You missed that sumbitch.”
“Hell I did,” the first man said.
Service could hear the sloshing of slush, probably in an ice chest. One of the men crumpled something, threw it in the grass, where it struck a rock or stick and pinged with a metallic sound.
When they were within ten yards, McCants stood up and said, “DNR, Conservation Officer, you fellas have any luck?” She didn’t turn on her light.
The walkers stopped. One of them grumbled, “Law.”
McCants turned on her light. “Any luck, guys?”
“Bejayzus,” one of the men said.
Service stood and illuminated his own MAG-LITE. “You heard Officer McCants. Any luck?”
“Sheeit,” one of the men said. “Me and Dermid heared you-un. Gut nuthin’. Fust tahm, come all ta way up here. Got more bars back ta home, I’d say.”
“I’d like to see your licenses,” McCants said.
The men grumbled, shuffled around. “Musta left ’em in ta rig.”
“Mr. Valda?”
One of the men said, “How you-un be a-knowin’ ma name?”
“Are you Mr. Valda, Mr. Lefton Valda?”
“I be.”
“And you?” McCants said, swinging her light to the other man, who squinted and held his arm up to block the light. “Dermid Atbal. Gittin’ thet light outten my face, womarn.”
Service saw that the men wore jackets over full camo jumpsuits, no hunter orange. They each had hold of the end of a large ice chest. Their rifles were slung over their shoulders, barrels down.
“Handguns?” Service asked.
“Huntin’ bar, fool,” the one called Atbal said. “Cain’t a-swing a longgun own a bar in ta blind, kinya now?” The man lifted his arm and Service saw a shoulder holster.
The other man said, “Under ta coat.”
“Handguns loaded?” McCants asked.
“Not much good they ain’t,” the one called Atbal said.