Seven

I figure the “guy in a cave” thing is a local joke, like saying you need to speak to a man about a dog. Dalton certainly doesn’t elaborate. We go into the driveshed, and I get a much more in-depth ATV lesson than I did when I arrived.

Dalton may grumble that he doesn’t like explaining things, but he’s a natural teacher. He’s patient and … I won’t say “enthusiastic,” which implies a level of emotion I don’t think our sheriff is capable of, but it’s like when we discussed the hostiles in the forest, and I mentioned primates and there was a spark of genuine interest there. A hound catching a scent. Except, for Dalton, that intriguing scent isn’t prey—it’s knowledge.

When he finishes the safety lesson, he starts to explain how the throttle works, and then checks himself, as if realizing this is more than I need to drive it. But it’s not more than I want, and when I ask questions, he pairs the driving lesson with one on basic mechanics, so I can understand how an ATV operates.

Dalton’s not the only hound who likes to pursue a trail of knowledge. When we’re riding and he slows to give me directions or point out an obstacle, I always have a question—what’s that animal that scurried across the path? or what are those trees with the berries? At first he suspects I’m sucking up, and his eyes narrow as he carefully responds. But I genuinely want to know, and he must see that in my face, because soon he’s giving the answers freely.

When we stop and get off the ATV, I don’t ask why. I get the feeling that’s not the kind of question Dalton likes to answer. Instead, as we walk into a clearing off the path, I notice what looks like a campfire ring.

I point to it. “One of yours? Someone from the town, I mean?”

He hunkers down beside the ring. “We have our bonfires in the town square. If we light one out here, it’s usually on hunting trips, when you’re a lot farther from town than this. We’ll also build them at the logging area or the fishing ponds, when it gets cold. This is from settlers.”

“People who live outside the town but aren’t actually hostile.”

“Not actively hostile. If you stumble on them and point your gun, yeah, expect trouble. What you have here looks like a hunting party. Maybe trapping. You can tell it’s settlers because they use stones for the firepit. The fire’s also a little too large. Hostiles are more careful. They’re also a little less …” He purses his lips, considering his word choice. “Structured.”

“They aren’t going to fuss with hauling in firepit stones and a log to sit on.”

“Yeah.”

“And you can tell it’s a hunting or trapping party because …?”

He points. “Decaying offal pile over there. Scavengers dragged away the better parts. There’s a broken arrow here, which suggests hunting, but trapping is still a possibility.”

Even when he points, I can’t see what he’s indicating until I go over and have to crouch to make out the signs he picked up in a casual sweep.

“If you’re out on patrol, you need to write anything like this in the logs,” he says. “Your notes will tell me how fast I need to get out here to assess.”

“Is there a guide for what things mean?”

He gives me a look like I’m asking for an app for my phone. Then he taps the side of his head.

“It’s all up there,” I say. “It would be more helpful if you wrote it down.”

“Tried. No one read it. Either they don’t give a shit or they don’t have an eye for reading signs.” He pushes aside a branch. “Mostly the latter. Like Will. Fucking worst tracker ever. Once reported grizzly tracks that turned out to be boot prints. His boot prints.”

I laugh.

“People learn in different ways,” Dalton continues as he walks back to the path. “Will’s a smart guy. College educated. Pre-med before he joined the army. But reading doesn’t do it for him. Hearing it, doing it, that’s how he learns. So not much point in me writing shit down.”

We continue right past the ATVs. Soon I see why, as the path becomes so narrow that we can’t even walk side by side. When I notice a sandy patch alongside the trail, I crouch for a better look.

“Speaking of prints,” I say. “What are these?”

He barely gives them a glance. “Cat.”

“Bobcat? They seem small.”

He snorts. “No bobcats here. Lynx mostly. And one cougar.”

“One?”

“We’re a little out of their range, which runs in a swath from Whitehorse to Dawson City. There is one, though. Her prints are nearly as big as a grizzly’s. You can’t miss them. And stay out of her way, same as you would a grizzly. She’s no friendly kitty. Killed a guy on a hunting trip couple years back.”

“I didn’t see that in the files.”

“No investigation needed. She jumped from a tree. Landed on his back. Snapped his neck and dragged him off to her kittens.” He rubs his chin. “Who may also have hung around, now that they’re full-grown.”

I peer up into the treetops.

“Too dense for her here,” he says. “And she’s not likely to strike when you have company. Predators are smart. They don’t bite off more than they can chew … or haul away.”

“Lovely …”

“The guy who got killed had wandered off from the party. We only knew what happened because he screamed and someone spotted the cat dragging him away. I suspect she only went after him because of the kittens. Spring’s when you need to be particularly careful.”