Season of Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

noting the position of the taller trees. On the third pass, he adjusted the flaps, and the Otter tilted back, pontoons reaching for the water. The landing was gentle, almost effortless. The prop reversed itself, and the engine roared angrily, bleeding speed.
    Jack parked the Beaver a half dozen yards from the beach. Killing the engine, he sniffed, “Here you go.” With that he snapped open the door and got out to set an anchor.
    “Gonna be great!” Lewis gushed.
    Billy Bob was panting, almost finished changing clothes in the cramped compartment. He looked more like a hunter now: plaid flannel shirt, worn jeans, wool socks … The felt Stetson was cocked back on his head.
    Ray stuffed the phone in his pocket, replaced the tiny Bible, and popped his door open. He waited as the cowboy tied his boots, then the two of them set the packs on the pontoon. Lewis was already crouched on a float, unstrapping the kayaks.
    Jack stood watching, arms crossed, face screwed as he sucked his cigar. Apparently unloading wasn’t part of his job description. “That it?” he grunted when the boats were in the water, the packs stowed. He seemed anxious to be on his way.
    Lewis glanced inside the cabin. “Dat’s it. We be seein’ you Sunday.”
    Jack nodded, sleepy-eyed. “Where the Kanayut meets the Anaktuvuk, just north of the village. Nine A.M . I’m gone by ten, canoes or no canoes.”
    “Kayaks,” Ray corrected.
    “Whatever. You fellas’ll have to boat yer way to the Beaufort if you don’t show by ten.” He sniffed again, eyeing them suspiciously, as if they were lunatics and their trip amounted to a suicide mission. “Good luck,” he told them gruffly, climbing back into the Beaver. The engine roared to life and the prop began to rotate seconds later, spurring Lewis, Ray, and Billy Bob into their kayaks. Jack waited until they had pushed off and were ten feet astern before gunning the throttle. The Beaver raced across the lake away from them, trailing a pair of glistening, parallel wakes, as it fought to make it up and over the tree line.
    When the wake reached them, Billy Bob shouted, “Hey …!”
    It was all he got out before disappearing. The kayak flipped, presenting its chipped, faded bottom to the bright morning sun.
    Lewis found this hilarious. “Da cheechako’s pretending to be a duck!”
    “Da
cheechako’s drowning,” Ray said, paddling to Billy Bob’s rescue. He took hold of the pointed bow of Billy Bob’s boat and twisted. The cowboy popped up, gasping, limbs flailing, hatless. “You okay?”
    Mouth agape, hair dripping, Billy Bob nodded. He was soaking wet, his face sagging along with his clothes. He reached a hand up and felt for his Stetson. “Tarnation!” Twisting his head, he searched the water frantically, as if he expected drenched felt to float. “That was a Caballero.”
    “Now it’s a Caba-outta-here,” Lewis chirped.
    “Have you ever floated a kayak?” Ray asked.
    “Naw,” he panted, spitting lake water.
    ‘A canoe?” Ray tried, shooting Lewis a dirty look.
    “Naw. Been in a bass boat …” he answered between breaths.
    “Might want to take that into consideration, Lewis,” Ray chided. “Whether or not your clients can kayak, if they can swim …” He turned to Billy Bob. “Can you?”
    “Shore. But I don’t thank it would do no good, what with ma legs stuck in this contraption.” He scowled at the boat, as if it had intentionally tried to do him in.
    “You insured for all this?” Ray asked Lewis.
    “Oh, sure.”
    “I’ll bet.” Ray spent the next ten minutes giving Billy Bob a crash course in kayaking. Having been raised in and around kayaks, umiaks, and various other water craft, Ray hadn’t even thought to ask the cowboy about his skill level. Obviously neither had Lewis, the
expert
guide.
    Soaking wet from head to waist, Billy Bob practiced the maneuvers obediently. Paddling back and forth, he smiled at his newfound ability and began making wide, wandering