by G. W. Thomas

"Come on, Jessie. That was three years ago that he tried to get funny with Mich. He's not a kid anymore. He must be at least nineteen. I don't even know if he still lives at home."

"Melanie's only what - sixteen? She's under age. They could try getting him on a statutory rape charge."

"Yes, and have her totally humiliated in town. Boy, won't she feel really good about living here?" Janice's sarcasm struck Jessie like a hot iron. Jan was the coolest-headed woman he knew. This was bothering her too.

"There are other means." Jessie whispered the words, not wanting to take credit for them.

"Mac's tried that too. He cornered Willy outside the Alexander Inn, trying to scare him off. Didn't work. Willy's been spending a lot of time down on the coast. Seems he's picked up more than just a drug habit."

"How's that?" Having to ask the question made Jessie feel stupid, but he didn't know what she meant.
"He was carrying a gun. Mac would have told the police except he'd have had to tell them what he was up to."

"Why didn't Mac tell me about all this?"

"Oh, you men. You never talk about anything except fishing and airplanes. You always leave the important stuff to us women. Like the time you were mad at Michelle for bumping the front fender. I had to talk to her..."

The conversation veered at that moment, as Jessie and Janice launched into the old argument. The best part of the evening was over.

*

Monday morning proved to be a nice, warm autumn day. Jessie left his coat in the work truck as he walked down a steep bank beside a stand of firs. A trapper-friend had told him, "A lot of guys were hunting in the nine-mile area near Black River since the deer and moose were said to be as thick as flies there." Jessie knew this was odd, since the seven-year cycle on ungulates was on a down slide and game was going to be sparse for a few years. A natural phenomenon. All the same, the hunters were coming here.

Fifteen minutes was all he needed to find out why. Fourteen salt blocks placed in forty-foot intervals in a dry patch under some old growth timber. He had seen it before, but usually near farms or ranching land where the land-owners could claim they were for cattle. Effective in spring, as poachers knew, the tactic was of little value during the frantic hunting season. Still, nobody was ranching cattle here in the middle of nowhere. Probably someone who thought they were being smart. Good luck.

After loading the blue blocks onto his truck one at a time, the officer took the gravel logging road three miles east to the home of his trapper-friend, Murthy. Jessie found Murth plucking chickens in the weedy expanse of the acreage's front yard, a place that served as workshop, skinning post and storage facility.

"Ho, Murth." Roland called as he crossed the short distance to the burly, hirsute man. Jessie laughed softly as he took in all of John Murthy. A living cliché, he was wide and tall and bearded.