Read Online In The Forest Of Harm by Sallie Bissell - Free Book Online Page B

tight. Jonathan reinforced the sides and top of the carton with strapping tape. His postal scale only went up to ten pounds, so he lifted the carton and guessed its weight. “I put that at about thirty pounds,” he said, bouncing the case up and down. He handed the box to Billy. “What do you think?”
    Billy jiggled the box and nodded his head. “Sounds about right. Don’t forget to charge extra for snakes, though.”
    Ignoring Billy’s remark, Jonathan hefted the box on the counter. “Okay, buddy. Who are you sending these to?”
    The man took out a worn piece of notebook paper from a leather pouch around his neck and handed it to Jonathan. “Send it there. C.O.D.”
    Jonathan copied down the Michigan mailing address. “You got a return address?”
    â€œJust put Henry Brank. General Delivery, whatever this place is called. They’ll send my money here.”
    â€œOkay.” Jonathan filled out a label and slapped it on the carton. “You want insurance?”
    â€œI’ll take my chances without.”
    â€œIt’ll go out Monday.” Jonathan looked up at Henry Brank, hoping this man’s business was done. “Anything else I can do for you?”
    â€œYou got any shells?”
    Jonathan nodded.
    â€œGimme three boxes of triple-aught.”
    Jonathan retrieved the ammunition and shoved it across the counter. He thought about warning this man that he was two months early on the gun season and that the wardens in both Tennessee and North Carolina would fine his ass proper if he came out of the woods with an illegal bear, but he remained silent. A big-time trapper like him ought to know the law. If this yahoo got stuck with a thousand-dollar fine for a poached bear, then so be it.
    The man’s gaze fell on the Polaroid of Jonathan and Jodie Foster. He grinned, exposing long teeth. “That your wife?”
    â€œNo.” Though Jodie Foster had exchanged less than ten words with him, Jonathan suddenly wanted to stand in front of the photo and shield her from the man’s inquisitive eyes. “She’s an actress who made a movie over at Fontana.”
    â€œJonathan here was in that movie,” Billy piped up proudly. “Jodie asked him herself.”
    Jonathan remembered the lights, the tangle of cables that stretched over the ground, the crews of Hollywood people who’d all looked vaguely stunned, as if they’d been dropped on Mars instead of a rural county in western North Carolina. Though the real filming work had been tedious, the pay was good and Jodie Foster had been nice even to nobodies like him. It had been the cushiest job he’d ever had, and he wished some other big star would come along and make another movie.
    The man dug a crumpled bill out of the leather pouch. “I’ll give you five dollars for it.”
    Billy cackled. “He’d sooner sell his own grandmother.”
    The man looked at Billy as if he were some yapping dog to be silenced with a kick. “That may well be, Geronimo, but I’m not interested in his grandmother.”
    Jonathan shook his head, noticing a louse that had crawled out from the stranger’s thick black beard. He tried to place the accent. This Henry Brank spoke mountain speech, but not with the twang of southern Appalachia. “Sorry. It’s not for sale.”
    The yellow eyes flashed for an instant, then settled on the knife protruding from Jonathan’s belt.
    â€œThat a Bowie?”
    Jonathan nodded.
    â€œYou any good with it?”
    Of all the things Indians were supposed to be good at, archery and knife throwing were the only two Jonathan Walkingstick had mastered. He’d never learned the Cherokee syllabary or the rules for stickball, but he could, without fail, make bows that sang true and plant the business end of Ribtickler anywhere he wanted.
    â€œI’ve skinned a few squirrels.” Unabashed, Jonathan looked the man full