Qwen was surprised about the direction in which they had to travel. This part of the Catskills was vast and undeveloped. He was puzzled as to why a so-called domesticated dog would head into the wildest areas. In his experience strays and lost animals usually sought out familiar ground: houses where they might beg food, populated areas where they might find scraps. Unless, of course, they became attached to a pack that had been running for some time.
He had heard about packs of strays, lost and discarded dogs, that would make long journeys through the forest, taking down deer and, although he never really came upon it himself, a bear here and there. Some of the old-timers talked about strays attacking men. The strays had been wild so long, they had lost all their domesticity. But this animal was alone and not that long away from civilized conditions.
As they walked on, the rising sun began to warm the air considerably, but they felt the warmth only when they traveled through opened or cleared areas. The forest was so thick, the trees growing so closely to one another, that at times it seemed as though they were traveling through a long green tunnel. In this part of the woods, there was a great deal of white and yellow
birch, knotty and twisted softwood trees that were distorted and weakened by their proximity to one another. How clearly was illustrated the law of survival of the fittest. The roots of the thicker, healthier trees invaded the territory of the thinner, smaller ones. There were many trees broken and split by the force of the wind and the weight of the ice and snow in winter. There was so much of it in some sections it looked as if a battle between opposing spirits had been fought, the only casualties evident in the fallen birch.
Occasionally, they moved through long and wide sections of pine, the fallen needles making a natural carpet of green and brown. Qwen loved the pungent scent of fresh pine. He always thought them to be regal and aloof. They remained green in the winter and seemed undaunted by the change in seasons. Sometimes a birch started its growth very close to a pine, but the pine continued its development as though it had turned its back on the audacious intruder. If the pine could speak, Qwen imagined they would tell him that the birch were ignorant, the peasants of the forest.
For a man like Qwen, the forest never ceased to be a wonder and an entertainment. He was never bored with it because to him it was different everywhere. The others walking behind him didn’t catch the quick, nervous movement of squirrels, the gazing, curious but cautious rabbits, and the variety of birds that flittered from branch to branch, peering down at them, whistling and singing warnings and announcements to unseen brothers and sisters somewhere in their general direction. He was amused by the animals and he wondered what they thought of this strange entourage moving somewhat boldly through their woods.
As soon as Maggie was released, she shot out about fifty feet or so in front of them and began barking and whining, serving them like a sonar device. To the
others her sounds were monotonous, even idiotic. This was especially true for Gerson Fishman. Finally he stepped forward and reached out to seize Qwen’s upper right arm.
“How the hell are we gonna find him if that dog keeps barkin’ all the while?” he asked when Qwen stopped and turned. “He’ll only keep runnin’ from us. Shit, he could hear that a mile away.” Qwen didn’t respond. He continued walking, moving as though nothing had been said. “Hey, I asked you somethin’!”
Qwen stopped again and turned slowly. “Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. . . . Fisher, is it?”
“Fishman. Gerson Fishman.”
“Fishman. First off, any dog worth his Ken L Ration would hear us comin’ a mile off. You’ve been smackin’ the branches and kickin’ your feet like you want to be announced. Second, when Maggie there gets within a mile of your pup, she’ll let us know and we’ll decide our strategy then. Feelin’ better about it?”
“Pup? Did you say pup?”
Qwen looked at Kevin and shook his head. Then he started on again, but this time Ann moved up beside him quickly. He looked at her, but neither of them spoke for a while. He decided that she was a great deal tougher than she had first appeared. Most women unused to this kind of difficult travel would have shown some signs of discomfort by now, but she looked as cool as she had when she came out of the institute. In fact, she had a look of determination in her eyes that frightened him a bit. Her pale complexion had reddened and blotched on her cheeks and over her forehead, but her lips were moist and her breathing was still quite regular.
“Where do you suppose he could be heading?” she asked. She didn’t stop or look directly at him; she
spoke as though she were talking to herself. He actually turned to her first to be sure she was speaking to him.
“Well miss, pretty soon we’re gonna know if he’s headed for population, although it’s a mystery to me why he’d go so far into the undeveloped woods first. I’m expecting him to head southeast eventually.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I’d say he has it in his mind to be a wild thing. Could he have that in his mind, miss?” Qwen asked. He had that gleeful glint in his eyes again, but Ann didn’t notice it. She was thinking too deeply about his question.
“He might,” she finally replied. “He might not like what he’s seen of civilization.”
“And just what might that be, miss? What has he seen?”
“The world of science, Mr. Qwen. In all its majestic promise.”
“But would he know what he’s seen, miss? He’s just a dog.”
“What’s all the gab about?” Gerson said, coming up behind them. “Your dog seems to be gettin’ farther and farther away.”
“Oh,” Qwen said, pretending some surprise. “I hope she’s not after jackrabbits.”
“What? You mean ...”
“Relax, Mr. Fishman.” Qwen paused and knelt to show them a very clear paw print.
“How do you know that’s not a fox?”
“Fox? Look at the size of the print and the distance between each. You can measure the dog’s size from this. He’s big, about as big as a German shepherd gets,” Qwen said, looking up at Kevin. “Maybe even a little bigger than a German shepherd gets. Is that possible, Kevin?”
“He’s been given some growth hormones that have had a positive effect on his maturation.”
“I’d say about a hundred, a hundred and five would be a good-size dog.” Qwen looked at the depth of the impression in the earth. “How much, Kevin?”
“About a hundred and . . .” Gerson spun around, but Kevin shrugged, as if to ask what difference does it make. “A hundred and a half.”
“More like a St. Bernard.” Qwen stood up. “There’s a creek a little ways ahead. Maggie’ll be waitin’ there. We’ll take a breather when we get to it,” he said and started on.
Gerson seized Kevin’s arm before he could continue. Ann kept moving.
“A bit mouthy about him, arent’ ya?”
“What’s the difference? If we’re successful, he’ll see him anyway, won’t he?”
“He doesn’t have to know about growth hormones and the other things.”
“He’s been around animals, Gerson. He’s gonna know things. He already senses it. Let’s quit kidding ourselves about it and just do the job we’re out here to do.”
“Amen to that,” Gerson said and released his grip. Kevin started, but Gerson remained behind a few steps. He looked back as though he expected company, lit a cigarette, and walked after them, glaring from side to side with the suspicious and aggressive eyes of a man in combat. He had been in woods like this before and he was never comfortable about it. He didn’t like the shadows and the silence. Birds fell through the trees like heavy stones. He resented their confidence. Mostly, he resented the confidence of the trapper. The man radiated an inner strength that came from an inner peace. It was almost oriental—inscrutible, controlled, and deadly to a man like Gerson. He
felt himself shudder like a drug addict who, for one split second, had imagined himself without supply. He shook the uneasiness from his mind and plodded on with heavy steps, moving as though dragged by some unseen chain.
Qwen was constantly aware of the three people beside and behind him. Each of them gave off different vibes. The woman was intense and alert. She moved with definite, strong steps, full of purpose, but even though she was the closest to him now, he sensed her aloofness. It was as if she were transmitting her thoughts on a frequency far above him. She was an alien creature; he imagined that if he were in a room with her, he’d feel alone.
Kevin was the warmest and, it seemed to him, the most reluctant. His steps were uncertain, cautious. When Qwen looked back at him from time to time, Kevin seemed distracted by his own troubled thoughts. He walked with his head down, like a truant schoolboy being escorted back to the classroom. Much of this Qwen attributed to his uneasiness in the forest. Kevin was a city boy who rarely, if ever, went deeply enough into the woods to lose sight of all civilization.
The big man who haunted the rear was also uneasy, but his irritability came from other sources. His steps were ponderous, angry. He was impatient with the pace of the search and the prospects of difficulty. When Qwen gazed back at him, he thought he caught a hateful gaze. Why this man should resent him so, he did not know; but he understood that the so-called security chief felt threatened by him.
Qwen wasn’t very comfortable with any of them. Because he had been self-reliant all of his mature life and because he lived in a world in which all the important laws were natural and obvious, he disliked police and military types. He respected the conservation
laws and appreciated their need and purpose, but he adhered to a higher code—the law of survival. He spent so much of his time in the forest and among wild creatures that he considered himself a citizen of a different country. If he was out in the forest for days, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a deer or a rabbit to eat, even though the season for such hunting might not be in effect. And yet he thought himself more moral because he saw those who hunted during the correct season to be invaders. Their kills were wanton; they did it for the sport or the fun of it; his life in nature had taught him that animals take the lives of other animals only for a necessary end, usually, only for food. Only man killed for the trophy.
Fishman, the police type, struck him to be a man who could kill for any reason, or maybe even for no reason. He had seen that, too—hunters who shot animals they didn’t want. They were the servants of a callous and impish Death, the Death of no purpose.
Kevin and the woman were academic types. They made him uneasy because he felt as though they spoke another language. No one felt safe in the company of people who could speak in a tongue he did not understand. It brought out the paranoid in him. They were talking about him, laughing about him, manipulating him somehow.
Maggie was waiting at the creek, just as he had expected. She barked and came running to greet them. Qwen laughed and knelt down to pet her as the others gathered about. Then he studied the ground and nodded to himself. Kevin had taken a seat on a big boulder. Ann stood beside him, waiting and watching Qwen search for signs, while Gerson stood right behind him.
It was relatively quiet except for the sound of the water rushing over the stones. In the distance, just over two tall hickory trees, two crows taunted one
another. Their caws seemed to be seized by the forest below and tossed back and forth by the large maple and oak, the sounds dying somewhere below the ridge to the left. No one spoke. They were all watching Qwen closely and waiting for his conclusions.
Suddenly he took off his moccasins, stepped into the water, and began to make his way across the creek. Maggie began barking madly and then went in behind him. The water wasn’t deep; it came to just below Qwen’s knees. The dog swam and used large stones to keep up. Since the creek was only about twelve feet wide, Qwen was across it in seconds. On the other side, he rolled down his pants and put on his moccasins. Then, without saying anything to anyone, he began to move down the bank of the creek. He went about twenty feet, paused and came back to the spot on which he had landed. He went upstream about twenty feet, stopped, scratched his head, and laughed.
“What’s so damn funny?” Gerson asked. He came to Kevin’s boulder and lit another cigarette.
“You guys are gonna hafta tell me a little more about this dog,” Qwen said. He sat himself down on the ground, laid his rifle beside him, and folded his legs under one another in Indian fashion. Maggie sprawled out beside him.
“What the hell . . .” Gerson looked at Kevin. He slipped off the rock and stood up beside Ann. Now the three of them stared across the creek at their trapper guide.
“What is it?” Kevin asked. “Why do you ask such a thing?”
Qwen shook his head. He took out a chunk of tobacco and bit off a piece. The crows flying over the hickory trees spotted them and flew overhead to inspect and report. Qwen watched them bank through the two large maples on the left and disappear.
“Well,” Qwen said, “I’ve tracked a few animals in
my time, animals that lived all their lives in the forest and knew something about flight from other animals. They all do something different to protect themselves. I’ve known hunters to walk right past a deer because it planted itself so successfully and so quietly in the bush, but anyone who could track worth a shit could come up right behind them and blow them to kingdom come because wild animals, as nature smart as they are, don’t know what we’re looking for. They don’t know what to hide, cover up, understand.”
“So?” Gerson said.
“Kevin, yesterday when I showed you what your dog did at that bush, you didn’t seem that surprised.”
“Well, he’s smart,” Kevin said.
“Smart?” Qwen laughed. He pointed to the area about ten feet below them. “Look carefully over there. You’ll make out the dog’s tracks. You’ll see where he came to the creek. What I was thinking was he’d go either east or west along the bank of the water, follow it somewhere. Okay, he didn’t do that. He went into the water.”
“So? What’s so smart about that?” Gerson asked.
“What’s so smart about it, Mr. Fishman, is he didn’t cross the creek.”