a week of fly-fishing and wildflower photography with him every summer for ten years now. No way would he let the man down. An outfitter’s reputation was built on dependability, as well as on delivering whatever the client wanted, from a trophy buck to a rare bird sighting.
But try to tell that to Larson, who saw him only as a tool for his own purposes.
“But what? This is crucial. Time is of the essence here.”
“Well, it may take a while, running the queen down. If she has a litter, she won’t be straying far from her den. And she won’t let the kittens out to play for weeks, not till their eyes open and she thinks they’re old enough.”
“She’s not a—a soccer mom, she’s a dumb animal!”
Dumb? I’d like to see you up there, with nothing but your claws and teeth and wits to feed your family. You and yours would starve in a week! Natwig dwelt on that comforting image for a minute, then said, “Once she’s down in her hole, my equipment won’t pick her up. It’s line of sight, remember? So if she isn’t moving around much, it’ll take longer. I may have to circle in till I cross her prints, then track her to her den.”
“Whatever it takes. Just do it. My…friends have authorized a bonus. An extra five thousand per kitten, on top of your usual ten.”
Natwig gulped, did the math. Five times ten, plus four times five—seventy thousand dollars, all in one den? That would put him past the halfway mark on his debt. No way could he take this assignment and shove it, much as he’d love to.
“But there’s one stipulation to that bonus.” Larson gave him an odd look—a twitch of guilty pleasure, instantly buried. “Since the kittens won’t be wearing a DOW collar, my clients will need some other sort of proof that you took them.”
No way. Natwig let his face relax, the way he did at poker. Not a chance. That would go against everything he was doing. “Like a scalp, you mean?”
Larson pursed his lips. “Or a tail, if that’s easier.”
What would be easy would be to grab this creep by the back of his greasy neck, then slam his head against his fancy steering wheel—half a dozen times. But how to say “no,” without giving his game away? “That would spoil the pelt,” Natwig said at last. It wouldn’t, but he could trust this city slicker not to know that.
Larson gave a little crow of delight. “With all we’re paying you, you’re selling their furs on the side?” Greed, now that was something he could understand.
“Why waste a good pelt? I’m tanning ’em and keeping ’em, for now. I’ll sell them next year, once the fuss dies down,” Natwig added, to head off any objections.
“So suppose I take a picture of the kittens when I catch them. As proof.”
“You could get a photo at the nearest zoo,” Larson noted dryly.
“A photo taken in the wild, not in a cage. Brought to you at the same time as their mother’s collar, with its Division of Wildlife number? It’d be more trouble to fake that, than to bring you the real thing. But if you don’t trust me…” Natwig reached for his door handle.
“No, no, I’m sure that will do,” Larson said hastily. He drew a folded paper from the pocket of his suit. “Here’s her latest coordinates. It’s Collar AK00F6.”
“That Alaskan hussy? Wasn’t she hunting over near Silverton?” Natwig had spent a week on snowshoes, looking for her in February. He’d crossed her tracks a dozen times, without once sighting the sly boots. Finally he’d concluded that she was holed up in one of the mines. The mountains up there were riddled with old shafts, and it would have taken half a lifetime to find her. So he’d gone on to easier prey.
“Yes, but she’s moved. You told me they do that.”
“Yeah.” But why would she abandon a perfect territory for nesting? He shrugged. Maybe she’d hunted it thin this winter and so had to move on. Whatever. “Where is this location?”
“Practically your own backyard. She’s in the peaks north of Trueheart.”
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