Blood on the Mountain (The Mountains) by Singer P.D

Author:Singer, P.D. [Singer, P.D.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2012-12-13T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

WE WOKE the next morning to dawn light and the sound of a gasoline engine. Sarge was up and shucking into his camos before the engine cut. He left me on the floor, stepping over me on the way out. He didn’t speak to me—I suppose I was just so much obstacle now.

Trussed up and stiff from a night on the ground in a fetal position, I seemed to be made of aching concrete. I tried stretching, but working the kinks out works better if you can unfold the kinks. I felt better from the shoulders down, and worked to roll to my knees.

“Hey, Buck,” I heard through the tent walls.

“What the fuck happened here, Sarge?” a new voice demanded. “The place is a fucking war zone.”

“That’s about what happened. I caught the rangers, but one of ’em got away, and not before leading a goddamned bear through camp.”

“Shit. We gotta move that.”

I hoped they enjoyed the task. A brown bear could weigh three or four hundred pounds. I reached a position approximating all fours, butt in the air. Better straighten to kneeling before Sarge got a look and changed his mind about leaving me unmolested. My head wasn’t entirely clear, but better than last night. Not that I wanted to share that bit of news.

“What did you catch?”

That was Sarge’s cue to come back and hoist me to my unsteady feet. I wobbled once standing, but more from not moving than from the head injury. He steadied me, and I didn’t enlighten him about how much clearer my head was. Wobbling a little more than necessary convinced him I’d collapse if he tried to march me outside with the baby steps the duct tape made mandatory.

“Getting tired of picking you up off the ground, ranger.” Sarge opened a knife large enough to make me suspect masculinity issues. Two quick swipes with the blade freed my legs. He let me stretch as much as I could with my forearms still secured, and led me out into the cool morning.

“Little worse for the wear, ain’t he?” The stranger, who had to be Buck, inspected me like so much meat. “He won’t be a lick of help getting that bear into the truck.”

Sarge nodded. “Useless.”

I swayed in place, anxious to reinforce that claim. “War zone” sounded right—the bear lay on its side, rivers of blood matting its coat in a dozen places, its belly chewed to hamburger by the hail of bullets it encountered. Gobbets of flesh and fur spattered the ground; reddish brown trails streaked the side of one of the tents. For all I appreciated the bear’s sacrifice, I didn’t want to touch it.

“Well, hell.” Buck shoved me aside, bouncing me off the trunk of a pine. “Stay out of the way. Sarge, go get the troops.” He stomped back to the pickup.

Sarge didn’t take his eye off me, yelling instead for Tubbs and Jonesy. You bet I would have run. Staggered. To anywhere I could find a broken

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