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Authors: Dana Stabenow
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meant the meat might even be edible.
She looked at Eberhard and Dieter and for once was not disappointed. It was impossible to realize the sheer bulk of Alces gi gas genus Alces, family Cervidae, order Artiodactyla without going into the wild, although there was a stuffed, mounted specimen of this ungulate ruminant antler bearer in the Anchorage International Airport, which made a living out of stopping tourists in their tracks. While ambassador to France, Thomas Jefferson had been laughed at when he spoke of the size and weight of the North American moose, and had had one stuffed and shipped to the French court to prove he wasn't just telling tales.
But this bull was very much alive, living, breathing, the sound of branches snapping between his jaws audible across the still water of the lake. He stood seven feet at the shoulder and measured at least nine feet nose to tail, with great humped shoulders, a long, heavy snout and a broad rack of antlers, seventy, maybe seventy-two inches wide.
He was mature, about six or seven years old from the size and number of his brow tines, four on each side and similar in length and evenly spaced. It was a handsome rack, broadly and evenly palmed, which was just as well since it was destined to grace the wall of the board room at DRG. Kate felt a pang of regret that he was not long for this world and hoped fervently that he had gotten lucky on multiple occasions every year of his adult life and had many offspring scattered between here and Beluga.
"Look at those horns!" Dieter said.
"Quiet," Kate said.
"Are those horns a record?" Dieter demanded in a lower voice. "No," Kate said without expression, but Eberhard gave her a sharp glance. "I'd guess about a seventy-inch spread, maybe a little more.
It's well shaped, though, nice and even."
"It'll look good on the wall of the office," Eberhard said. Dieter was not to be placated. "What's the record?"
"A little over eighty inches, tip to tip," Kate said, "according to Boone and Crockett."
Dieter crouched over his Merkel, hands clenched on the stock, face flushed with excitement, and worked this into centimeters. He swore.
"A third of a meter short of the record."
One of the bull's ears twitched. "Quiet, Dieter. You don't really want to have to chase him through the bush, do you?"
"I wanted a record." Dieter said stubbornly.
Kate, crouching with her elbows on her knees, rifle held easily in her hands, said with great patience, "I don't think George puts any guarantees of record kills in his contracts, Dieter. You want this bull or not?"
Dieter flashed her a look of irritation, and looked back at the bull.
"I want him," he said, and raised the Merkel to his shoulder.
"No, not yet!" Kate said urgently, but it was too late. The Merkel boomed in her ear.
Kate, quite forgetting who she was speaking to, said, "You stupid bastard!" and knocked the barrel of the Merkel upward as it boomed a second time. Dieter leapt to his feet and yelled at her in German, face red with fury. Across the lake, the first bull bolted. As the ringing cleared from Kate's ears she could hear his frantic crashing through the undergrowth growing steadily more distant.
She got to her feet, ignoring Dieter, intent on the second bull, which was her mistake. He raised the Merkel, butt toward her, and pulled back as if to strike. She caught the movement from the corner of her eye and turned on her heel to face him directly, rifle held horizontally across her chest. As the butt came toward her, she used her rifle like Little John's quarterstaff, jerking it sharply upward.
The swift, abrupt contact of barrel to stock jarred the Merkel out of Dieter's hands and it flew over his head and fell into the lake.
Eberhard's rifle was coming around and up. "Don't," Kate said. The bolt of the Remington shot home with a heartening sound.
There was a brief, tense silence, broken only by the frenzied splashing sounds Dieter made as he waded into the lake to search for his
She looked at Eberhard and Dieter and for once was not disappointed. It was impossible to realize the sheer bulk of Alces gi gas genus Alces, family Cervidae, order Artiodactyla without going into the wild, although there was a stuffed, mounted specimen of this ungulate ruminant antler bearer in the Anchorage International Airport, which made a living out of stopping tourists in their tracks. While ambassador to France, Thomas Jefferson had been laughed at when he spoke of the size and weight of the North American moose, and had had one stuffed and shipped to the French court to prove he wasn't just telling tales.
But this bull was very much alive, living, breathing, the sound of branches snapping between his jaws audible across the still water of the lake. He stood seven feet at the shoulder and measured at least nine feet nose to tail, with great humped shoulders, a long, heavy snout and a broad rack of antlers, seventy, maybe seventy-two inches wide.
He was mature, about six or seven years old from the size and number of his brow tines, four on each side and similar in length and evenly spaced. It was a handsome rack, broadly and evenly palmed, which was just as well since it was destined to grace the wall of the board room at DRG. Kate felt a pang of regret that he was not long for this world and hoped fervently that he had gotten lucky on multiple occasions every year of his adult life and had many offspring scattered between here and Beluga.
"Look at those horns!" Dieter said.
"Quiet," Kate said.
"Are those horns a record?" Dieter demanded in a lower voice. "No," Kate said without expression, but Eberhard gave her a sharp glance. "I'd guess about a seventy-inch spread, maybe a little more.
It's well shaped, though, nice and even."
"It'll look good on the wall of the office," Eberhard said. Dieter was not to be placated. "What's the record?"
"A little over eighty inches, tip to tip," Kate said, "according to Boone and Crockett."
Dieter crouched over his Merkel, hands clenched on the stock, face flushed with excitement, and worked this into centimeters. He swore.
"A third of a meter short of the record."
One of the bull's ears twitched. "Quiet, Dieter. You don't really want to have to chase him through the bush, do you?"
"I wanted a record." Dieter said stubbornly.
Kate, crouching with her elbows on her knees, rifle held easily in her hands, said with great patience, "I don't think George puts any guarantees of record kills in his contracts, Dieter. You want this bull or not?"
Dieter flashed her a look of irritation, and looked back at the bull.
"I want him," he said, and raised the Merkel to his shoulder.
"No, not yet!" Kate said urgently, but it was too late. The Merkel boomed in her ear.
Kate, quite forgetting who she was speaking to, said, "You stupid bastard!" and knocked the barrel of the Merkel upward as it boomed a second time. Dieter leapt to his feet and yelled at her in German, face red with fury. Across the lake, the first bull bolted. As the ringing cleared from Kate's ears she could hear his frantic crashing through the undergrowth growing steadily more distant.
She got to her feet, ignoring Dieter, intent on the second bull, which was her mistake. He raised the Merkel, butt toward her, and pulled back as if to strike. She caught the movement from the corner of her eye and turned on her heel to face him directly, rifle held horizontally across her chest. As the butt came toward her, she used her rifle like Little John's quarterstaff, jerking it sharply upward.
The swift, abrupt contact of barrel to stock jarred the Merkel out of Dieter's hands and it flew over his head and fell into the lake.
Eberhard's rifle was coming around and up. "Don't," Kate said. The bolt of the Remington shot home with a heartening sound.
There was a brief, tense silence, broken only by the frenzied splashing sounds Dieter made as he waded into the lake to search for his
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