The Weirdo (10 page)

"Are they?"

Okay, Dennis didn't seem to think so, either.

"Your papa has seen danger, a lot of it. I think he
has a little bell up in his head that rings when a rattler is crossin' Chapanoke. Same applies to the Dairy Queen waitin there for a stickup, like Burger King."

Sam gave up. "Do you need any more help?"

"Not for a little while."

"Think I'll go cool off."

"Good idea."

Sam went upstairs, changed into her cutoffs, lifted a swimsuit top out of the lower drawer—not that she had much to cover up—and rode her bike up heat-waved Chapanoke toward the canal, feeling she'd solved nothing.

A few minutes later she plunged off the bridge into the mahogany-colored water, rolled over and back-stroked. No one else was there, as usual. With her skin-and-bones figure, she preferred to swim alone.

***

TELFORD called Chip one evening in late August, saying, "Meet me at Dunnegan's tomorrow morning. Around eight. A farmer's shot a bear on the western edge."

"One of ours?"

"He was raiding a cornfield this afternoon."

"Not Henry?" Chip asked, alarmed. Any of them were cause for alarm, but Henry in particular.

The last week, they'd traced three males into cornfields that neighbored the swamp. Males often ventured out to gobble down the ripe ears. Now one was dead.

Next morning, riding north by the canal before swinging west to visit the farmer, Chip asked, "Isn't there any way to stop the killing?"

Telford shook his head. "I don't know of any. Bears've been raiding the fields for centuries and will keep on doing it so long as crops are put in."

"Can't the shooting be outlawed?"

"Farmer has a right to protect his livelihood, Chip. Most of 'em don't even report it. They shoot and skin the carcass, put steaks into the freezer. Some get a special license."

"Why don't they just chase them away?"

"Money. A big male can eat fifty dollars' worth of corn in no time. They wait until there's juice in it, then attack. There's always two sides."

"I'm on the bears' side."

Telford laughed, scanning over. "I am, too. But I'm not a farmer."

Forty minutes later, they found the right mailbox and went down the lane past seven-foot cornstalks, dazzling green, tassels golden.

Telford chuckled. "There's a big banquet here. Any self-respecting bear would drop in for a meal."

Soon the trim white farmhouse loomed, and a pair of dogs were yelping, running alongside, heralding the arrival of the truck.

A moment later, a middle-aged man in a T-shirt appeared, coming from around the barn.

"You Mr. Goris?" Telford asked.

"That's me. You must be the bear man."

"Yes. This is my assistant, Chip Clewt." Chip always felt a surge, hearing that.

They alighted from the truck, Telford bringing along his camera.

"I had four nail me last year, an' I'm gettin' damn tired of it," Goris said.

"Don't blame you," Telford replied, causing Chip to look at him in disbelief. "Thank you for calling us."

As they walked toward the section of field where the bear lay, Goris said, "I left the collar an' the ear tags on."

"I do thank you," Telford said.

A few minutes more and the farmer said, "Well, there he is, an' look at all the damage he did."

There were broken-off cornstalks for more than a hundred feet, two rows deep.

Chip looked at the poor bear, slumped on his side, half his head blown off, flies swarming over the cavity. He only glanced at the damage to the crop.

The two men were staring down at the bear.

Chip didn't think it was Henry. He heard Goris say, "I shot 'im with a Savage 110-E...."

"There wasn't much doubt you'd kill him, was there?"

"Not a bit, son."

Chip turned away, eyes filling with tears.

Telford bent over the carcass, examining an ear tag, murmuring, for Chip's benefit, "He's Number Nineteen."

Seething inside, but feeling helpless, Chip went on back to the truck while Telford removed the collar and tags. Poor Number Nineteen, just wanting food, had his head blown off. He was "Roger" in Chip's log.

 

"YOU DIDN'T even sound angry at that man," Chip said accusingly, as they pulled away from the Goris place.

"He did what was legal. Don't get emotionally involved," Telford replied, looking straight ahead.

"He could have just chased him away."

"And he'd've come back tomorrow."

Chip fell into silence, unable to accept what he'd just seen.

"If that bothers you, wait until they lift the hunting and fishing moratorium. They'll come in with multiple packs of dogs...."

"You have to be kidding," said Chip, eyes wide.

"I wish I was."

"Can't you do anything about it?"

"Me? No! It's a political thing. My job is to get an estímate on the population, track the feeding areas. The same people who are providing the money for this study may decide to open it for limited hunting next fall."

"Can't you protest?"

Telford drove awhile without answering, then finally said, suddenly annoyed, "I'm trying very hard to get my doctorate. Chip, I can't get involved. I need the grant money."

"So they'll just come in and kill off bears."

"Unless this study indicates they haven't increased that much in the last four years."

"If they've increased a lot, can't you just cheat? For their sake?"

Telford's head swung around. "No! Look, there's a big problem all over the country. The habitats are shrinking. Too many bison in Yellowstone, too many white-tailed deer in Gettysburg; too many mountain goats in Olympic National in Washington. Not enough food. If you shoot them, the animal rights people scream. Even the biologists argue about this. There's no one, easy answer."

Chip struggled with his thoughts. There had to be ways. "Can't they just move the excess animals?"

"They often die off when you change their environment."

"There has to be a way."

"Figure one for us. You'd win the animal Nobel Prize."

Chip descended into silence, waiting for Telford to speak again. He did, in a moment, annoyance gone from his voice.

"There are checks and balances in nature that used to work. Mountain lions and wolves killed deer. But people have killed off mountain lions and wolves. So you have excess deer. Bears usually aren't quick enough to catch them. Sooner or later, if you find there have been too many births and not enough deaths, you have to examine the food supply. No, I can't cheat. I personally want to know. Hunting may be necessary...."

"I never thought I'd hear you say that."

"You just did! You wouldn't want them to starve, would you?"

"No," Chip said, sighing dismally. He lapsed into thoughtful silence again, then asked, "Okay, how do they hunt them?"

"The new way is high tech, with radio-collars on the dogs and hand-held receivers to plot the positions...."

"Like we do it?"

"Exactly. Some of the very wealthy hunters out west use small aircraft. In the past, hunters went in with two or three dogs and waited for the hounds to tree the
bears or at least surround them. There was always a sporting chance to escape."

"Can't the new way of hunting be outlawed?"

"Sure it can, if the state legislators'll do it. I doubt they will. They'd lose votes...."

The Toyota hummed along.

"The hunters even have a new name for themselves: houndsmen. How does that grab you?"

Tom said the trucks they used were called "rigs" and their method of hunting was "rigging." The dog with the best nose was leashed to the hood of the truck, standing on a piece of carpet. As the rig moved slowly over the trails or backcountry roads, the hound sniffed the air for a bear's heavy scent. When the hood-hound started to bay, the dogs in the back of the rig were released and the chase began.

"Makes you sick," Chip muttered.

"Uh-huh," Tom said.

"And you won't he about how many are back here?"

Telford met his gaze. "No."

Chip became silent for the rest of the ride to Dunnegan's, disappointed in Tom Telford for the first time.

***

"SEEING poor Roger huddled there dead, flies after him, I wanted to throw up."

Chip and his father were down by the spillway, opening valves to allow water from the lake to flow down into the George Washington. The electronic canal gauge had signaled the need to up the level just a few minutes after Chip came home.

The day's heat still pressed down on the Powhatan, though a late-afternoon breeze caused tree leaves to dance and scalloped the surface of the Nansemond.

Chip said, "I just can't believe that the government will allow killing to start back here again."

"What did Telford say about it?" John Clewt asked, batting at the yellowflies that droned around his head.

"He said hunting is sometimes necessary and that he wouldn't cheat on the count."

Clewt knew the ban depended on the estimated number of bears in the swamp. "Can you blame him for that?"

Chip worked another rusty valve wheel around with his right hand. Dark water started to rush down the flume beneath his feet. "All he needs to do is tell them there are fewer bears than before."

Clewt looked over at his son. "Are there?"

"We don't know yet. But why do they need to hunt, anyway? They only do it for the thrill of it."

"Well, I guess people have the right to entertainment. Don't get me wrong. I've never hunted in my life."

Two more flumes needed to be opened. Chip and Clewt moved to the right of the spillway.

"How can they shoot a deer, even a rabbit?" Chip asked loudly, his rage lingering.

"Chip, I agree."

"Big, brave hunters come in trucks with electronic search-and-kill equipment, damn them. What chances will the bears have?"

Clewt shook his head and checked his watch. Six hours to bring the level back to normal. Close the spill at midnight.

"So they spot a bear. How do they know it's not a female with cubs in her belly? Will they even care?" Chip was still talking as they entered the house.

Later, before dinner, he took a walk along the lake-shore, thinking about it. Howling dogs all around, frightened bear up a tree, hunters coming in, aiming rifles with sophisticated sights, firing.
Bang, it's all over.

Tom Telford might not be able to do anything about it, but Chip promised himself he would.

***

IN THE morning, Chip met up with the Telford at a rendezvous spot near the footbridge on Trail Seven, and the first thing he asked was, "Do you think an
outfit like Greenpeace would go after Fish and Wildlife?"

"About the ban?"

Chip nodded.

"National Wildlife Conservancy might be better."

Off they went for more triangulation, seeking beeps in the southern feeding area.

"How do I get in touch with them?"

"They may already know. They try to keep track of who's hunting what, and where."

"Suppose they don't know."

"Then I guess you'll tell 'em."

"If they know, I'll remind them. I did a lot of thinking last night."

"So did I. Timing is the big thing when you get involved in politics. At least, that's what I've heard. If you start too early, you run out of gas early. And you give the other side time to rally the troops. So I'd wait until next fall. By that time, we'll know just about how many bears live here."

"Will you get involved?"

"Behind the scenes. I'll give you the ammunition to stop the hunters, if the figures work out. X number of bears, you should have X sources of food. But as I said yesterday, too many of them, and the rifles will fire. And I'll agree to that. I will, no matter what you think."

"So we don't do anything until next year?" Chip asked.

"Well, we can think about it."

***

THE NEXT two weeks, they spent most of each day aloft in a small Cessna for aerial telemetry, tracking the bears at five or six hundred feet, antenna under each wing; then they resumed the normal ground tracking. Chip did not want to see the summer end, though eastern Carolina still steamed miserably. Despite forecasts of coolness, late September was offering little relief from high humidity. Telford said fall and winter would bring a natural slowdown of their activity. He was even looking forward to doing paperwork.

***

MONITORING Number 11-88's signal with the handheld antenna early one afternoon, Telford and Chip heard barking dogs. Telford looked off in their direction with alarm. They seemed to be stationary.

"Bear?" Chip asked.

"Maybe," Telford replied.

They'd been on foot the last half mile, trying to
intersect the position, having parked the Toyota on the other side of Mattanock Ditch, Trail Six.

"Let's go," Telford said, starting to run toward the sound of the dogs.

Chip kept up as best he could.

Over his shoulder, Telford said, "Keep behind me. Could be a poacher up there."

Farm dogs without their masters sometimes penetrated the edges of the swamp to chase fawns or other game, even bear. It didn't happen often. Usually dogs meant a man with a gun.

Telford had been warned by the wardens to be careful around anyone caught poaching. Eight years earlier, a warden had been murdered in the Powhatan. So far, the killer hadn't been apprehended.

A few minutes later the sound of a single shot echoed.

Ethel, Number 11-88, fell out of the tree but hit the ground running. Plowing into the ditch—a mistake—with the three dogs right behind her, Ethel decided to make a stand in the shallow water. She rose up on her hind legs, blood trailing out of her belly.

The dogs came up to her. She cuffed the first collie, knocking him back with a sideswipe, stunning him; then she took the setter into her jaws and went under to drown him. But then the dog broke loose and bobbed
up, going back after the weakening bear, joined by the second collie.

Soon, she was floating in the ditch, head underwater, all three dogs tugging at her flanks.

Telford got within a hundred feet of the poacher, who was busily tearing off low-hanging branches, when the dogs caught human scent down-trail and let out warning yelps.