Page 52 of Dark Sky

“Nope. This is a much smaller herd.”

As he spoke, the lead cow raised her head and sniffed the air.

“She sensed us,” Joe whispered.

The cow turned and rumbled into the timber with the rest of the herd following behind her.

“That was cool to see them,” Price said. “I meant to ask you: Did the elk come by our position this morning after we had left?”

“Yup.”

“Well, damn. That was probably the only chance I’ll ever have to harvest one in the wild.”

—

As they worked their way across the rockslide, Price said, “Earl said he’d contacted ConFab a bunch of times, but I never heard about it. Maybe his complaints worked their way up through the hierarchy until they got to my office and Tim saw them. Maybe Tim fielded them and kept it secret—whatever it was—from me. He’s a schemer, and I wouldn’t put it past him. Maybe Tim knew about Earl being out here, and he certainly knew about my desire to go elk hunting. He must have put two and two together.”

“It was Tim who contacted our governor on your behalf,” Joe said, nodding to himself.

“Well, there you go.”

Joe checked his wristwatch. It was midafternoon and snowing hard. They had three hours before it would start to get dark. He tried to estimate the time it would take on foot to hike down out of the mountains and locate the trailhead. He estimated twelve to fifteen hours at least, since they’d ventured so far away from the most direct route.

“I believe in forgiveness,” Price declared. “Tim doesn’t.”

Then: “We’re going to die out here, aren’t we?”

“Maybe.”

“I was kind of hoping you’d say something else.”

“Sorry.”

“It’ll go viral,” Price said. “I’d kind of like to see it blow up.”

—

Joe noted a flicker in the lower branches of the spruce trees just ahead of them, so he stopped and squinted. Price bumped into him before backing off.

Through the tangle of boughs there was a flap of wings and a chicken-sized bird landed heavily on the ground and began strutting between the tree trunks. There were maybe a dozen others, Joe guessed, half in the trees and half on the ground.

“What are they?” Price asked.

“Pine grouse,” Joe said. “Some people call them fool hens.”

“Why?”

Joe backed up and Price followed.

Joe searched through a tangle of downed branches until he found two that were about three feet long and still green enough to be solid and heavy with sap. He trimmed the dried shooters off the bark and handed one to Price.

“They’re called fool hens because sometimes they’ll stay in one place long enough that you can whack their head off with a stick.”

“Why would we do that?” Price asked incredulously.

“They’re good to eat,” Joe said. “Pine grouse have saved me before.”

Joe cleared some space and demonstrated to Price how to swing the stick like a baseball bat. Price did a practice swing.

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