Read Online Hunter's Moon by Dana Stabenow - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dana Stabenow
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beloved Merkel. He found it and pulled it up, covered with muck and bracken.
He wasn't happy, and he said so. Kate didn't move. All of her attention was focused on the big man opposite her with the big rifle in his hands. Eberhard took a quick look at Dieter. He relaxed visibly, standing down, as it were, and actually bent his head, a warrior's recognition of his equal. "I won't underestimate you again," he said.
"Oh please," she said, impatiently. "Spare me the Marine's Hymn." She looked across the lake.
Dieter hadn't missed, but it hadn't been a clean hit, either. The second bull was lying half on the bank, half off it, surrounded by a widening pool of dark red. As she watched, he thrashed feebly, tangling his rack in the alders. She raised the .30-06 to her shoulder, flipping up the sights and bringing the bead to bear on the moose's head. He thrashed once again, before lying back against the bank, flanks heaving. Kate let out a breath, held it and sighted on the moose's left eye. Before the shot finished echoing across the lake, the bull was still.
She ejected the spent shell and picked it up. She was as short on diplomacy as she was on patience and only the fact that George Perry was a sometime employer and longtime friend kept her from giving forth with her unvarnished opinion of Dieter, his character, his ancestors and his associates. She pocketed the shell and shouldered the rifle.
"Let's go," she said and walked around Eberhard in the direction of the dead moose.
There was a mutter of German behind her. She ignored it, forcing her way through the undergrowth. It caught at her braid and her clothes until she managed to shove head and shoulders through the alders lining the edge of the lake where the moose was.
There was nothing to show for Kate's shot but a missing left eye. The Merkel, on the other hand, had taken half a shoulder with it. Broken bones gleamed whitely through red meat, and Kate caught a whiff of something unpleasant. Dieter's slug had clipped an intestine. Goody.
Dieter fought his way through the brush and pounced. The next ten minutes were fully occupied with picture taking, Eberhard producing a small but undoubtedly expensive Leica and shooting a roll of film with Dieter in various poses.
The camera came to the end of the roll and started rewinding. "Okay," Kate said, pulling a knife.
There was a startled exclamation from Dieter and Eberhard almost dropped the camera going for his Weatherby. Kate kept her face straight and extended the knife to Dieter, hilt first. "Time to start skinning." He took the knife automatically. It was a slender eight inch blade with a wickedly sharp edge. "To take the head off?" "Among other things," Kate murmured, and stood and watched him hack off the head with clumsy enthusiasm. It would have been easier for him if she'd produced the hatchet from her pack, but she didn't, and he was panting and covered with blood and moose hair by the time the head broke free from the body. He went to lift it up and was surprised by the weight, as well he should be. The rack alone probably weighed fifty pounds.
Wet to the knees with swamp water, stained to the waist with moose blood, red rage replaced with a pink and gratified pride, Dieter displayed his trophy. Eberhard's attaboys were as flattering as one of his phlegmatic nature could produce. Kate waited. Dieter finally remembered her presence, and turned to hand her the knife.
"Not so fast," she said. "Finish skinning him out."
"What?"
"Finish skinning him out," she repeated. "You'll have to haul him from the water first."
Dieter gaped at her for a moment, then recovered. "We got what we wanted," he said, indicating the head.
"We take the meat, too." He looked baffled. "But--" He looked around at the surrounding brush and brightened. "There are other animals who will eat the meat." Inspired, he stuck one finger in the air like Christ pointing the One Way. "Wolves! There are wolves in Alaska! They will eat the
He wasn't happy, and he said so. Kate didn't move. All of her attention was focused on the big man opposite her with the big rifle in his hands. Eberhard took a quick look at Dieter. He relaxed visibly, standing down, as it were, and actually bent his head, a warrior's recognition of his equal. "I won't underestimate you again," he said.
"Oh please," she said, impatiently. "Spare me the Marine's Hymn." She looked across the lake.
Dieter hadn't missed, but it hadn't been a clean hit, either. The second bull was lying half on the bank, half off it, surrounded by a widening pool of dark red. As she watched, he thrashed feebly, tangling his rack in the alders. She raised the .30-06 to her shoulder, flipping up the sights and bringing the bead to bear on the moose's head. He thrashed once again, before lying back against the bank, flanks heaving. Kate let out a breath, held it and sighted on the moose's left eye. Before the shot finished echoing across the lake, the bull was still.
She ejected the spent shell and picked it up. She was as short on diplomacy as she was on patience and only the fact that George Perry was a sometime employer and longtime friend kept her from giving forth with her unvarnished opinion of Dieter, his character, his ancestors and his associates. She pocketed the shell and shouldered the rifle.
"Let's go," she said and walked around Eberhard in the direction of the dead moose.
There was a mutter of German behind her. She ignored it, forcing her way through the undergrowth. It caught at her braid and her clothes until she managed to shove head and shoulders through the alders lining the edge of the lake where the moose was.
There was nothing to show for Kate's shot but a missing left eye. The Merkel, on the other hand, had taken half a shoulder with it. Broken bones gleamed whitely through red meat, and Kate caught a whiff of something unpleasant. Dieter's slug had clipped an intestine. Goody.
Dieter fought his way through the brush and pounced. The next ten minutes were fully occupied with picture taking, Eberhard producing a small but undoubtedly expensive Leica and shooting a roll of film with Dieter in various poses.
The camera came to the end of the roll and started rewinding. "Okay," Kate said, pulling a knife.
There was a startled exclamation from Dieter and Eberhard almost dropped the camera going for his Weatherby. Kate kept her face straight and extended the knife to Dieter, hilt first. "Time to start skinning." He took the knife automatically. It was a slender eight inch blade with a wickedly sharp edge. "To take the head off?" "Among other things," Kate murmured, and stood and watched him hack off the head with clumsy enthusiasm. It would have been easier for him if she'd produced the hatchet from her pack, but she didn't, and he was panting and covered with blood and moose hair by the time the head broke free from the body. He went to lift it up and was surprised by the weight, as well he should be. The rack alone probably weighed fifty pounds.
Wet to the knees with swamp water, stained to the waist with moose blood, red rage replaced with a pink and gratified pride, Dieter displayed his trophy. Eberhard's attaboys were as flattering as one of his phlegmatic nature could produce. Kate waited. Dieter finally remembered her presence, and turned to hand her the knife.
"Not so fast," she said. "Finish skinning him out."
"What?"
"Finish skinning him out," she repeated. "You'll have to haul him from the water first."
Dieter gaped at her for a moment, then recovered. "We got what we wanted," he said, indicating the head.
"We take the meat, too." He looked baffled. "But--" He looked around at the surrounding brush and brightened. "There are other animals who will eat the meat." Inspired, he stuck one finger in the air like Christ pointing the One Way. "Wolves! There are wolves in Alaska! They will eat the
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