Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

Clem Gustler pulled his fist back and punched his cousin in the face. “What the fuck were you thinkin’?” His voice was cool but tight with tension.

Walt dropped to the ground, spitting blood, and fingered his split lip. “What’s your fuckin’ problem?”

Clem couldn’t believe his ears. “The bears, dumbass. What made you think dumpin’ them near the Dragon Runners’ campground was a good idea?”

The man on the floor scratched his greasy head. “Dunno. I thought it funny to play a trick like ’at on Brick.”

“Funny.” Clem’s single word came out bitterly sarcastic. “I got a real interestin’ visit from some new guy named Weatherman and Mute. Fuckin’ Mute. Last thing we need right now is fuckin’ Brick and his boys pokin’ into our business. That rich Canadian fella is comin’ soon to hunt cougars. Paying us ten grand if he gets one.”

“We ain’t got no cougars left ’round here.”

“Page Harper over in Tennessee is gonna trap one and bring it over for them to shoot.”

Walt grunted as he stood up. “That’s right. I forgot.”

Clem shot a stream of tobacco juice between his teeth at the wood floor. “Stupid shit for brains.”

The old cabin was completely off grid. No electricity, no running water, no phone lines, nothing but the raw single-room structure. He had no idea who built it or who the land belonged to. He and his brothers had found it on a hunting trip years ago and used it whenever they needed to hide. Usually, it was from the game warden or forest rangers. Today, it was the Dragon Runners MC.

The temptation to leave Walt here teased Clem’s mind. The only way to access this remote place was on four-wheelers, and even then it was tricky, with no real path or road. This was where they brought the hides and other parts they harvested from the bears and other animals. Four bear skins were stretched on racks next to six red foxes and three coyotes. A dozen more assorted ones were in curing barrels. Walter fucked up the last bunch by not salting them quick enough in the field, and by the time they’d made it to the cabin, the hair was starting to fall out. The leather was still usable, but the hunters usually wanted a full-hair hide of their kill for a rug. Clem made sure he had backup hides to send them when that happened. Not one of them could tell the difference between the animal they shot and a substituted one.

Clem figured it was a win-win. Some bored rich guy wanted to go hunting but not get his precious hands dirty, so Clem would supply the animal they wanted to shoot. He got paid for the “hunt” and then paid more to do the skinning and tanning. The big targets were the bears, but foxes, coyotes, and turkey buzzards were scavengers, and he’d picked off a few of them when they came to investigate the remains. Everything was for sale if you had the money.

It was simple: put out bait barrels loaded with dog food and horse tranquilizer, then wait for a bear to find it and get drunk. Hibernation for pregnant bears should be starting by November, and he’d already tagged a bunch of dens for quick kills when the time came. Males would still be out and about all the way up until December, and with the extra-warm fall, it might be even longer before they settled down. It was rare, but when winters were too warm, there were some bears that didn’t hibernate at all.

Easy pickings. Easy money.

Ethics be damned.

Yeah, he was supposed to get a hunting license for only one bear and turn in the tooth for population study, but when did he ever follow the rules? Too much hassle, plus that shit was expensive.

“Hey, Clem? Them livers and such is all dried out now. What’s that fella want ’em for?”

Clem’s lips rose in an irritated snarl. There was also a contact they’d made in Canada who bought the livers, gallbladders, and other unwanted parts. From what Clem could tell, the guy ground up the dried-out organs, mixed it with other shit, and sold it as magic medicine.

“How the fuck should I know? Probably makes your dick hard or somethin’.”

“Oh.”

My genius cousin, Clem thought with a mental eye roll. “I don’t give a shit if some jackass wants to snort powdered shit up his nose so he can fuck his wife on Saturday night. We’re makin’ money, and that’s all that matters. But we ain’t gonna make any more money if you keep fuckin’ around with the Dragon Runners.”

Walt gave his cousin an acidic look and fingered his split lip again. “Who the fuck put you in charge?”

“You got the connections up north?”

“No.”

“Then shut the fuck up. Page said he’d text as soon as he gets a cougar trapped. I don’t want nothin’ goin’ wrong with this shit, so keep your damn mouth closed until we get our money. You understand me, motherfucker? Keep away from the fucking Dragon Runners.”