It might as well have been Greek; for all she knew, Dieter could have been thanking her for reminding him of his duty as a visitor to the Alaskan Bush. From the look on his face she didn't think so, though.
Patience was a virtue Kate neither had in quantity nor particularly admired. "The rule is, leave it how you found it. You pack it in, you pack it out. We don't leave trash behind on our hunts, Dieter. Pick up the wrapper." She thought it over, and added--he was a paying customer, after all-"Please."
His fair skin flushed a dull red. "You pick it up." Kate didn't move. "I'm your guide," she said flatly, "not the garbage man. Pick it up yourself." Almost casually, she shifted her rifle so that the muzzle was pointing between his feet.
There was a strained silence. Dieter glared at Kate, face turning even redder. Either he didn't like women, didn't like people of color or didn't like anybody who didn't have as much money as he had, or maybe it was all three and nobody told him what to do besides. Take a number, Dieter, she thought.
Eberhard broke the impasse by leaning over and picking up the wrapper.
He stuffed it in his fanny pack and buckled the pack around his waist.
"Those moose don't stay around forever, do they?" he said. "We'd better get going." He cradled his Weatherby in his arms, and its muzzle came to rest pointed in Kate's general direction.
She laughed. He didn't like it, and neither did Dieter. She managed to control her amusement and jerked her chin in the direction of the lake. "Let's take it slow and easy, boys. Quiet as you can, okay?" They took it slow and easy down to the lake, although the strain of carrying fourteen pounds of Merkel at present arms for three hours was beginning to show in Dieter's face and shoulders. He called for a rest often. Eberhard continued to manage his Weatherby like he would a toothpick. They crouched in a stand of diamond willow, peering through the thicket to the water on the other side.
"My feet are getting wet," Dieter said, too loudly.
"Quiet," Kate said, without heat. Dieter was wearing hiking boots that laced as high as the ankle and no higher, not a lot of support over rough ground and no protection at all in the swamps that grew the best moose browse. She had no sympathy for him; George sent out a list of equipment to each of his hunting parties, including specific instructions about footwear. It wasn't her fault if Dieter chose not to follow them, although the hike home, particularly if they got their moose, was not looking like a fun time. The lake was half a mile across, a limpid pool with the barest ripples showing in a silver surface that reflected every needle and leaf and branch of the trees that grew at its edge and the blue sky above. The diamond willow stood twelve feet deep in places around the edge, guaranteeing this lake would be first in the chow line for the local moose.
Since the day before George's bull had been joined by a second. Kate groaned to herself. Dieter would probably want both.
The first bull was directly across from them, broad butt planted in the lake, head buried in a thicket of diamond willow. He was on the scrawny side, though, and his rack was a little droopy around the edges, giving him the look of a character who had just wandered out of a Disney cartoon. About a hundred yards on their left, the second bull, nice and firm and fat, was planted with all four knees deep in water, a hundred percent of his attention focused on systematically stripping the bark from a stand of alders clustered at the edge of the lake, one branch at a time, making a leisurely journey around the clump, which direction was moving him slowly but steadily to dry ground. Perfect.
"Nice," Kate said in a voice barely above a whisper. It was an understatement. She estimated a good nine hundred pounds of meat dressed. "He'll fill up somebody's cache for the winter." Neither one of the bulls looked twitchy, so they might have yet to go into rut, which
Patience was a virtue Kate neither had in quantity nor particularly admired. "The rule is, leave it how you found it. You pack it in, you pack it out. We don't leave trash behind on our hunts, Dieter. Pick up the wrapper." She thought it over, and added--he was a paying customer, after all-"Please."
His fair skin flushed a dull red. "You pick it up." Kate didn't move. "I'm your guide," she said flatly, "not the garbage man. Pick it up yourself." Almost casually, she shifted her rifle so that the muzzle was pointing between his feet.
There was a strained silence. Dieter glared at Kate, face turning even redder. Either he didn't like women, didn't like people of color or didn't like anybody who didn't have as much money as he had, or maybe it was all three and nobody told him what to do besides. Take a number, Dieter, she thought.
Eberhard broke the impasse by leaning over and picking up the wrapper.
He stuffed it in his fanny pack and buckled the pack around his waist.
"Those moose don't stay around forever, do they?" he said. "We'd better get going." He cradled his Weatherby in his arms, and its muzzle came to rest pointed in Kate's general direction.
She laughed. He didn't like it, and neither did Dieter. She managed to control her amusement and jerked her chin in the direction of the lake. "Let's take it slow and easy, boys. Quiet as you can, okay?" They took it slow and easy down to the lake, although the strain of carrying fourteen pounds of Merkel at present arms for three hours was beginning to show in Dieter's face and shoulders. He called for a rest often. Eberhard continued to manage his Weatherby like he would a toothpick. They crouched in a stand of diamond willow, peering through the thicket to the water on the other side.
"My feet are getting wet," Dieter said, too loudly.
"Quiet," Kate said, without heat. Dieter was wearing hiking boots that laced as high as the ankle and no higher, not a lot of support over rough ground and no protection at all in the swamps that grew the best moose browse. She had no sympathy for him; George sent out a list of equipment to each of his hunting parties, including specific instructions about footwear. It wasn't her fault if Dieter chose not to follow them, although the hike home, particularly if they got their moose, was not looking like a fun time. The lake was half a mile across, a limpid pool with the barest ripples showing in a silver surface that reflected every needle and leaf and branch of the trees that grew at its edge and the blue sky above. The diamond willow stood twelve feet deep in places around the edge, guaranteeing this lake would be first in the chow line for the local moose.
Since the day before George's bull had been joined by a second. Kate groaned to herself. Dieter would probably want both.
The first bull was directly across from them, broad butt planted in the lake, head buried in a thicket of diamond willow. He was on the scrawny side, though, and his rack was a little droopy around the edges, giving him the look of a character who had just wandered out of a Disney cartoon. About a hundred yards on their left, the second bull, nice and firm and fat, was planted with all four knees deep in water, a hundred percent of his attention focused on systematically stripping the bark from a stand of alders clustered at the edge of the lake, one branch at a time, making a leisurely journey around the clump, which direction was moving him slowly but steadily to dry ground. Perfect.
"Nice," Kate said in a voice barely above a whisper. It was an understatement. She estimated a good nine hundred pounds of meat dressed. "He'll fill up somebody's cache for the winter." Neither one of the bulls looked twitchy, so they might have yet to go into rut, which
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