ago.
Although they lived in neighboring towns, Mark didn’t know either of the two rangers personally; but the situation didn’t exactly lend itself to friendly conversation, not when it seemed more than likely that they were here to retrieve his friend’s body. After supper on the first night, with darkness pressing in on them from the surrounding forest, Mark stood by the campfire and whittled on the maple branch he’d been using all day as a walking stick. Thin curls of bark dropped into the flames and sputtered.
“Carving anything special there on your walking stick?” Wally asked. He held a fresh cup of coffee up to his mouth with both hands, and blew over the top to cool it.
“Not really,” Mark said, shrugging and unable to think of anything more to say.
“I used to have one helluva great walking stick,” Wally went on. “An old Penobscot Indian from up ‘round Millinocket carved it for me. Had a big bear’s face carved on the top. Looked like a Christless war club. I used it for ten, maybe fifteen years before I lost it. Hiking up Mount Katahdin one time, I dropped it off a cliff like a damned fool.”
“Too bad,” Mark said softly. He held himself back from mentioning that the only thing he had ever lost over the side of a cliff was one of his best friends.
Raising the stick to his eye like a rifle, Mark sighted down the long, smooth shaft. After a few more passes with his Swiss Army knife, he gripped the top end tightly and shook it to check its heft. Satisfied, he cleaned the knife blade on his pants leg, folded up the blade, and slipped it into his pocket, then knelt by the fire to warm his hands. Although Mark never went hiking without a walking stick, this particular one, he feared, might have to serve a different purpose; he wanted to have something close at hand that he could use as a weapon—what Wally would call a “Christless war club”—in case the creature that had attacked him before was still lurking in the area. He was tempted to tell the rangers his fear that they might be in more danger than they realized, but he let it drop, not wanting to sound like a nervous, greenhorn fool in front of the rangers.
“Hard to believe it’s only nine o’clock,” Sykes said suddenly. He was the younger of the two rangers, no more than twenty-five years old, Mark guessed.
“Gets dark early now,” Wally said without looking up as he sipped his coffee noisily.
“Cold, too,” Mark said.
“Yeah, but at least we don’t have any Christless mosquitoes chewing our asses,” Wally said.
Trying his best to sound casual, Mark stretched and said, “Yeah, well, I guess I’ll settle down for the night. We want to get started as soon as the sun’s up, right?”
“Sure thing,” Wally said. “I heard John volunteer to get up and fix us breakfast in the morning, ain’t that right, John?”
“Uhh—yeah, sure,” Sykes said, knowing that in the pecking order of this small group, he was what Wally kept calling the “littlest pecker.”
“G’night then,” Mark said.
He walked over to his tent and zipped open the flaps. Feeling a bit foolish still holding on to the walking stick, he climbed inside, undressed quickly, and slid into his sleeping bag.
But sleep wouldn’t come.
For several hours, he just lay there, watching the soft glow of the campfire flickering on the tent walls and listening to the muffled conversation of the two rangers outside. Their words eventually blended with the night sounds around them, and then, the next thing Mark knew, the forest was alive with the raucous songs of morning birds. Grunting softly, he rolled out of his sleeping bag and crawled to the front of the tent. In the dim gray light of dawn, Sykes was kneeling in front of the campfire, feeding the flames some dried branches to get the blaze going again. His misted breath hung around his neck like a silver scarf.
“Mornin’,” Mark said softly, his teeth chattering. He didn’t like disturbing the hushed
Although they lived in neighboring towns, Mark didn’t know either of the two rangers personally; but the situation didn’t exactly lend itself to friendly conversation, not when it seemed more than likely that they were here to retrieve his friend’s body. After supper on the first night, with darkness pressing in on them from the surrounding forest, Mark stood by the campfire and whittled on the maple branch he’d been using all day as a walking stick. Thin curls of bark dropped into the flames and sputtered.
“Carving anything special there on your walking stick?” Wally asked. He held a fresh cup of coffee up to his mouth with both hands, and blew over the top to cool it.
“Not really,” Mark said, shrugging and unable to think of anything more to say.
“I used to have one helluva great walking stick,” Wally went on. “An old Penobscot Indian from up ‘round Millinocket carved it for me. Had a big bear’s face carved on the top. Looked like a Christless war club. I used it for ten, maybe fifteen years before I lost it. Hiking up Mount Katahdin one time, I dropped it off a cliff like a damned fool.”
“Too bad,” Mark said softly. He held himself back from mentioning that the only thing he had ever lost over the side of a cliff was one of his best friends.
Raising the stick to his eye like a rifle, Mark sighted down the long, smooth shaft. After a few more passes with his Swiss Army knife, he gripped the top end tightly and shook it to check its heft. Satisfied, he cleaned the knife blade on his pants leg, folded up the blade, and slipped it into his pocket, then knelt by the fire to warm his hands. Although Mark never went hiking without a walking stick, this particular one, he feared, might have to serve a different purpose; he wanted to have something close at hand that he could use as a weapon—what Wally would call a “Christless war club”—in case the creature that had attacked him before was still lurking in the area. He was tempted to tell the rangers his fear that they might be in more danger than they realized, but he let it drop, not wanting to sound like a nervous, greenhorn fool in front of the rangers.
“Hard to believe it’s only nine o’clock,” Sykes said suddenly. He was the younger of the two rangers, no more than twenty-five years old, Mark guessed.
“Gets dark early now,” Wally said without looking up as he sipped his coffee noisily.
“Cold, too,” Mark said.
“Yeah, but at least we don’t have any Christless mosquitoes chewing our asses,” Wally said.
Trying his best to sound casual, Mark stretched and said, “Yeah, well, I guess I’ll settle down for the night. We want to get started as soon as the sun’s up, right?”
“Sure thing,” Wally said. “I heard John volunteer to get up and fix us breakfast in the morning, ain’t that right, John?”
“Uhh—yeah, sure,” Sykes said, knowing that in the pecking order of this small group, he was what Wally kept calling the “littlest pecker.”
“G’night then,” Mark said.
He walked over to his tent and zipped open the flaps. Feeling a bit foolish still holding on to the walking stick, he climbed inside, undressed quickly, and slid into his sleeping bag.
But sleep wouldn’t come.
For several hours, he just lay there, watching the soft glow of the campfire flickering on the tent walls and listening to the muffled conversation of the two rangers outside. Their words eventually blended with the night sounds around them, and then, the next thing Mark knew, the forest was alive with the raucous songs of morning birds. Grunting softly, he rolled out of his sleeping bag and crawled to the front of the tent. In the dim gray light of dawn, Sykes was kneeling in front of the campfire, feeding the flames some dried branches to get the blaze going again. His misted breath hung around his neck like a silver scarf.
“Mornin’,” Mark said softly, his teeth chattering. He didn’t like disturbing the hushed
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