The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

the land at a price five times what we can afford to pay. After we refuse, they’ll make an offer on the buildings here, knowing we don’t have the money to move them anywhere else. That’s the way it happened when they went into Montana, from what I understand. Wendigo never evicts anybody. They just force you to sell out at their asking price.”
    “How long have you been here?”
    “Thirty-three years.”
    Ora came rolling out with our drinks and a bowl of roasted pumpkin seeds on a tray on her lap. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour,” she said. “Why don’t we go out onto the porch?”
    Charley’s mouth tightened. “I thought you felt cold.”
    “I’m warmer now,” she said with an unconvincing smile.
    Charley and I sat down in wicker rocking chairs, facing the lake, while Ora positioned her wheelchair to one side.
    “Supper smells great.”
    She smiled. “I hope you don’t mind moose. Charley got about three hundred pounds of meat from a man in town who hit one with his car.”
    “Totaled his Subaru,” he said. “Lucky he wasn’t killed.”
    “The irony is the poor man is a vegetarian.” Ora gave a sad laugh.
    “We’ll be eating moose until it’s coming out our ears,” said Charley. “How many moose have you shot?”
    “None, yet.” It was an embarrassing admission for a Maine game warden.
    “You’ll get one with brainworm or struck by a car before too long, and you’ll have to put it down.” He was speaking as if I hadn’t just resigned from the Warden Service. “So I understand you shot a bear last week.”
    “It was killing pigs. I was hoping to relocate it somewhere up this way, but a farmer wounded it, and I had to put it down.”
    “How big a guy was he?” asked Charley.
    “Two hundred pounds. But he looked twice that size.”
    “Bears always look bigger than they are,” he said. “That’s the problem I have with baiting them during bear season. These dimwit hunters shoot the first bear that comes close to their tree stand. Half the time it’s a yearling cub, thirty-five pounds or so. Then they’re too embarrassed to haul the little thing back to camp, so they stash it behind a brush pile and try for a bigger one.”
    “Charley.” Ora gave him a hard look.
    “I’ll shut up,” he said. “Baiting just gets me steamed. I know the state’s got to manage the bear population, but still—”
    “Charley.”
    “I’m finished.” He took a sip of iced tea.
    We gazed out through the porch screen at the lake’s dark chop, the lights of Flagstaff burning like yellow and red stars in the far distance. The purr of a motorboat carried across the water, a fisherman returning late to shore.
    Then Ora said, “Mike, I’m sorry about your father. This must be very difficult for you.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “Have you talked to anyone about this? A minister or counselor?”
    “Ora,” said Charley.
    She leaned forward and touched the arm of my rocking chair with two fingers. “You can’t save him, dear. What ever happens is up to him. I hope you’ll remember that.”
    “Ora, that’s enough.” Charley rose to his feet. “My God, what a busybody you are. She loves to ask questions she has no business asking.”
    She looked up at her husband, leaning back in her chair. “Charley’s right,” she said.
    “You don’t need to apologize.”
    “Oh, yes she does.” He took hold of the rubber handles on the back of her wheelchair and pivoted her toward the door. “We’ll check on supper and let you finish your beer in peace.”
    They left me alone on the porch.
     
    Dinner was the best I’d had in ages. The roast was lean and tender with a stronger flavor than beef. There were new potatoes and onions from the Stevenses’ big garden, and Ora steamed some sort of greens Charley plucked from the yard. On the table was a Mason jar of wild mushrooms pickled in cider vinegar and a crusty loaf of home-baked bread wrapped in a warm napkin.
    It was the kind of meal my mother never made. I remembered all the nights I’d spent as a kid staring down at an orange lump of boxed macaroni and cheese. Even when my dad brought home deer meat she managed to burn all the taste out of it. She just never put any effort into cooking. And, of course, the TV was always going, background chatter to their arguments.
    Charley and Ora drank glasses of cold milk they poured from a pitcher. But I stuck with beer. There were four empty bottles in front of me, and I was feeling