Part 5
The snow near the north ridge was churned by boot prints and a dragging mark. Mason followed it to the remains of a butchered elk beside the ravine. The shots had not been aimed at the bear, or at least this animal had also been taken. Farther on he found cartridge brass, a food wrapper, and tracks from three dogs. He photographed each item in place, resisting the urge to gather everything with his bare hands. He had already brought one casing home; he could still give an officer its location and his notes. The rest of the site needed to remain as it was.
The camp was tucked among firs four miles from his house.
Three green tents stood above the ravine. A hide had been stretched beside a butchered carcass. Three lean hunting dogs were tethered nearby, one awake enough to lift its head when Mason moved behind a trunk. A paper map sat under a stone by the fire pit. Even from his hiding place he recognized Dean’s broad red marks. Nobody was there. Mason took photographs through the branches and marked the location against a split cedar and the turn in the ravine, then withdrew before the dogs could make noise.
He found Seth outside the small sheriff’s substation. The deputy studied the photographs, then asked whether Mason had seen the men kill any animal. “No. I saw the camp and what’s in it. I heard the shots.”
“I can take a report.” Seth’s pencil paused over the page. “The Fish and Game officer covers a big district. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after.”
“Send these pictures now. The camp is occupied, and Dean threatened me with a rifle two days ago.”
Seth said he could not order a search on Mason’s account alone. He took the den casing in a labeled envelope and wrote down where Mason said he had found it; Mason kept the fur packet and copies of the photographs. Seth’s reluctance was no longer merely irritating. Every hour gave Dean time to move the camp. Mason asked for the regional conservation officer’s number and called from the porch in front of the deputy. He reached a recorded message, then left his name, the coordinates he could give, the threat, and a request for an immediate return call.
For a moment Mason considered telling Seth about the bottle he had seen him take. The deputy was the only officer in town, and Mason needed the camp reported before anyone could argue about the deputy himself. He wrote the time of their conversation beside the time of his call, then asked Seth for a copy of the incident number. Seth gave it to him reluctantly. On the walk home, Mason sent that number and his photographs to Ruth. He had made too many assumptions about what other people knew. This time the information would not remain in one person’s pocket.
At home, Ruth looked at the mud on his boots and understood he had gone farther than the den. He showed her the photographs. She studied the elk first, then the tethered dogs. “They didn’t come back to make friends with the town,” she said.
“The bear’s trail goes past that ravine. If Dean turns the dogs loose, it won’t have much room.”
“And if you go by yourself, neither will you.” Ruth set the phone between them. “I can take the truck into town. Seth might ignore you, but I can get him to put me through to his supervisor. If that fails, I call Fish and Game and the state police from the highway where the signal holds.”
Mason wanted to say no. She held up a hand. “I’m going on the road, Mason. You’re the one who knows the ravine. We each do the part we can do.” He gave her the photos, copied to her phone, and traced the forest road on a map. They agreed on an hour after dark. If he was not back, she would tell every dispatcher exactly where he had gone. She made him say the route twice.
Ruth wrote the directions on an index card and slipped it into her coat pocket. She had run the household books long enough to distrust a plan that depended on memory at the worst possible moment. Mason showed her the point where the old logging road met the paved highway and where a truck could turn without getting trapped in snow. She asked him to stay at the camp’s edge if the men were there. “I’ll do my best,” he said, which was honest and maddening. Ruth accepted no easier promise. Before she left, she made him put the spare batteries in his bag and check the flare launcher’s two cartridges in front of her.
By dusk, Ruth had left for town, and Mason set out through the north timber with a rifle across his back and a flare launcher from his old emergency kit in his pack.
He was going to watch the camp from cover and keep the bear moving away if he could. He had no plan that would make it safe to confront armed men. The absence of one bothered him all the way to the ravine.
The logging road fell away behind him. He marked a broken birch where he would turn back toward it if the weather closed in, then checked his phone: no signal. For once that fact comforted him a little. Ruth’s route did not depend on his phone ringing in the woods. She had the photographs and the map, and she was willing to make a nuisance of herself until somebody listened. Mason slowed at the first fresh dog print. It lay on top of the afternoon’s dusting of snow, the pad edges still sharp. The hunters had come through recently. He moved off the main path and took the last stretch among the trees.
Halfway there he stopped to drink from the dented thermos. Ruth had sweetened the tea. At the edge of the clearing, a dog gave a high, urgent cry. Another answered. Mason put the thermos away and moved toward them, keeping his flashlight off. Below him, at the lip of the ravine, three pale shapes circled the injured bear. Beyond the dogs, Dean raised his gun.
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