John D. MacDonald
Man-Stalk
The wind, coming down from the high places, had the smell of ice in it, but the sun was hot enough in the dooryard to make me unbutton my flannel shirt right down to the belt before I had half finished the repair work on the canoe. Belle had the kitchen door open and I hummed along with her as she sang in that true, husky voice.
I thought of the big wall chart I’d pinned up by the chunk stove. The letters were coming in and my schedule was filling up. It looked like another good year. When the snow finally goes for good it gives a man a wonderful feeling. I had to get all the equipment in shape to take the customers out after bear, trout, deer and moose — all in season, all scheduled.
A man can feel so good he gets a little superstitious about it. I stopped working and straightened up and for a moment the ice in the breeze struck through me, down to the small tightly-coiled knot of memory. I smiled it away. After a time you learn how to look a man in the eye again, how to walk down the village street the way an honest man walks. In time, you become an honest man, because that is what you wanted to be all the time. And you are accepted as such. It was that simple.
I heard the car slow down to turn into my place and, because the memory was so close to me then, I turned too quickly. Old habits come back.
After a few years in that sort of country you know everyone. I knew the big station wagon belonged to Car-son Medwell. I had never spoken to Medwell, though I had seen him accompanied by the small-boned dark man who sat behind the wheel. Medwell owns ten thousand acres of heavily wooded perpendicular country.
I turned back to my work. The man blatted the horn. In the woods when you drive into a man’s yard you get out of the car. I didn’t look up. I kept working. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Belle come to the doorway.
The little dark man came across the dooryard toward me, his mouth tight, throwing his feet out to each side in a cityman’s strut. I watched him come.
“You deef?” he asked.
“What can I do for you?”
“Medwell wants to see you. I’m to take you back with me.”
I glanced at Belle. Her face had taken on that unintelligent look she saves for annoying strangers.
“You could have a long wait,” I said. “I’ve got a lot of work here.”
He looked at me and he smiled. It was an oddly knowing smile. It said that we should understand each other. It made the breath I took feel shallow, as though I wasn’t getting enough air.
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to come along and find out what he wants?”
The threat in the words was semi-innocent. But it was there. I bent over and laid the brush across the top of the can. “It might, at that.”
“You were going to get that finished before lunch, Ben,” Belle said mildly.
I turned and let her see some of the fury I wanted to show the little man. Her eyes widened a bit, then she turned without a word and went back into the kitchen.
I buttoned my shirt as I walked toward the station wagon. I found that I had my jaw set so tightly that my teeth were beginning to ache.
A half mile down the road I asked, “What does he want?”
“He’ll tell you.”
He drove uncomfortably fast. We turned off and bounced over the corduroy road, then turned again into the winding brush road through the Medwell property. I had heard about his lodge, but I had never seen it. It was made of redwood, cedar and lake stone, sprawling along the south shore of a lake that was a half-mile in length.
Medwell was bigger than I had realized. He was standing by a huge stone fireplace, a drink in his hand, as we came in. A thick, heavy, white-skinned, positive man in his fifties. He wore gray flannels and his stomach pushed out against the front of the fancy dude-ranch shirt. A young blonde girl sat by the fire hugging her knees. Medwell looked at her and she got up without a word and went out. The little man who had brought me stayed.
“Sit down, Lawson,” Medwell said. “Scotch, rye or whatever?”
I told myself this was just an order for a hunting party and that my imagination had been playing tricks. I sat down. “Nothing, thanks.” The leather chair was deep and comfortable.
“I won’t waste your time, Lawson. I’ve been looking for a man with your qualifications and your... ah... interesting background.”
I couldn’t keep my hand from tightening on the chair arm. He saw it before I could relax it. He smiled. “Lawson, did you really think you could keep it hidden forever?”
“Keep what hidden?”
“You would play a poor brand of poker. Guides have to have licenses. If they knew, they wouldn’t license you again, would they?”
There was no use running the bluff any further. “It was long ago and I served my time. What can you gain by ruining me and my business?”
He finished his drink and set the glass on the mantel. He had a satisfied look. “Ruining you is the furthest thing from my mind, Ben Lawson. I have an assignment for you. It’s completely legal, of course. But, to be blunt, I’m afraid you wouldn’t have taken it unless I — found a basis for applying pressure. Do you know how I made my money?”
I’ve seen a bear in a trap after he knows he can’t pull free. There’s a slow-moving numbness about him.
“Mining, wasn’t it? In Canada.”
He used the soft tone of a man speaking of work he loves. “The mining business is a poker game. There is ruthlessness in it. Four years ago I went into partnership on one venture with a man named Jay Fournier. He was handling the prospecting end, using aircraft. I found that it was in his mind to dissolve the partnership before staking claim to a good strike. I took steps. No need for details. I ended up with the strike and Jay ended up, as I planned, with twenty years in King’s Prison. I’m afraid his knowledge of innocence in the matter on which he was convicted made him bitter.”
“You mean then that he was framed?”
“It was a very rich strike, Lawson. Fifteen days ago he escaped, killing a guard in the process. They believe he has drifted down this way across the border. He was once a guest here. It is no secret that I’m here. And he has nothing to lose.”
“How do I come in?” I asked.
“You are a woodsman, and, rumor has it, a good one. So was Jay, four years ago. I have a pleasant apartment in New York. I could go there. But I have never run from anything in my life and fifty *is a poor age to start. I am the bait. If I was any good in the woods I would become the hunter. But I never play another man’s game with his cards.”
“I won’t go into the woods to kill a man,” I said.
“Did I say that, Lawson? I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I am hiring you to protect me. I shall pay you for it.”
I thought it over. He gave me time to think. What could be wrong with such an assignment?
Before I could answer, he took a wallet from his hip, took out five crackling, crisp hundred-dollar bills. He put them on the arm of the chair, close to my hand, spread so that I could see there were five of them.
“If you can capture Jay Fournier. Lawson. I shall consider it a job well done. He can be returned to prison. For that I will add another five hundred. However, if you should find it necessary to kill him, I know that there would be considerable mental anguish involved. So I am prepared to add forty-five hundred to that five hundred to bring it to five thousand.”
They were both watching me. The small man looked quietly amused. Medwell had the look of a man who has just pushed a bet to the center of the table.
“You said you didn’t want him killed, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know why you keep questioning my motives, Lawson. Killing a man is unpleasant work. The reward should be higher. You can take the job and try to capture him. A thousand dollars is good money up here.”