The Spirit

The dog was seated on a white divider line, its ears cocked, its nostrils trembling at the trees. The Indian said, “He’s worried, ain’t he. He knows I mean it.”

The whistle cracked out. The dog dashed into the trees without a glance at the Indian.

The Indian quickened his pace down the road, his hands holding the medicine bundle so it would not bounce against his waist.

“Ah, Mr. Jason!” Kimberly chuckled over the speaking phone line. It must be raining between here and Kansas City. “And where are you?”

“I’m in a pay phone in a gas station in Washington.” “And how is the hunting season?”

“Never better. I’ve tracked my moose to northern Washington. He came through a trailer park last night not ten miles from here.”

“No!”

Jason opened the folding door to kick out a beer can. “And get this, Kimberly. I think the Bigfoot’s from around here. He knows these rivers too well.” Jason explained about the five rivers leading to the Little Harrington.

“It doesn’t sound like he knew about this trailer park.”

“The hell he didn’t! He went right for a vegetable garden. After that he made a beeline to an apple orchard. He takes chances, Kimberly, like he did at the farm in Canada.”

Kimberly said dubiously, “Maybe you’re right, maybe not. I can’t poke any holes in it yet. What about this Indian?”

“Oh, he’s still around. I found out he’s a Flathead from Montana.”

He heard the frantic scratching of Kimberly’s pen on paper. “Splendid, Mr. Jason! I’m off to the library first thing in the morning to see what I can dig up on Flat­head Indian lore. Maybe I can find out why the Indian’s following him.”

“That still leaves me with the big one. This ape’s traveled a good thousand miles on foot. And five hundred of those miles since July. Can you tell me why he would be running around like this?”

Kimberly mulled it over, then grunted. “You’ve got me there, Mr. Jason. It makes absolutely no sense. Has he killed any more animals?”

“I don’t know. I imagine he has.” Jason slipped more coins into the phone slot.

“I’m tempted to say he’s been hunting. There’s a very elaborate, time-­consuming activity called persistence hunting. You walk your prey to death. The trouble is, you have to do it in a band. It does sound to me like he holds food to be very important, maybe more important than sex, shelter, and even his own safety. He did eat a musk ox, didn’t he? Not many members of the ape family outside of baboons eat meat. It makes sense that he likes apples. Most primates adore fruit. I bet he likes it better than musk oxen.”

Jason said, “Yeah, but a thousand miles? That’s a long way to hunt. That can’t be it.”

Kimberly was silent.

“Kimberly? If I were to look for a Bigfoot’s home, what exactly should I look for?”

“A cave,” Kimberly replied promptly. “A cave system would be better. Best of all would be a cave system in a fairly isolated mountain valley where he could gather roots and tubers all day without being seen. Besides, caves are full of tasty little bugs and things they could nibble on.”

It occurred to Jason that the cave above the trailer park had been empty of insect life. His quarry couldn’t pass up a meal, no matter how small.

Kimberly sighed. “I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Jason, I’m glad there’s no such thing as a Bigfoot. It’s October already, and I’m wondering where he plans to spend the winter. Maybe you’re right, maybe he came home. Then again, maybe he has a place in Florida.”

Jason parked the car off the road under some trees and moved his gear to the lake. He selected a campsite that was fairly dry and opened a can of his company’s dog food for Buck. The dog took a sniff and disdained it. “Thanks for the unsolicited endorsement. What did they feed you there? Filet mignon?”

He pitched a tent, unfolded the kerosene stove, and heated up a can of chili. He polished and cleaned the pistol and reloaded it. Strapped to his belt was the steel hatchet he had bought that afternoon.

Night was a long time falling this far north. By seven the sun was gone, but the sky was still orange, making black spears of the trees around the lake. From the trunk of his car Jason unloaded a bushel of apples, which he had purchased at a road stand. In the fading light, he set out the apples in conical pyramids around the lake. Next to each pile he drove in a stake and chain and attached it to a bear trap, which he buried.

The swampy woods were alive with bullfrogs and insects. They were extremely loud, especially the frogs, whose diaphragmed croaks were like the thrum of plucked rubber bands. When night fell, Jason still labored by the light of a flashlight, sweating open the spring-­held jaws of the traps and covering them with light brush. The shepherd watched him, his ears cocked and his body trembling at each sound.