Chapter 2

The stench of death hung in the air…a dinner bell to predators, and a silent warning to prey. Relying on instinct more than training, Blake Langford surveyed the area. Automatically, he placed a hand on the gun holstered at his hip and zeroed in on the section of woods where his friend, Denali, was examining a section of tall, beaten down grass Blake had assumed was an animal trail.

He returned his attention back to the dead animal at his feet. Kneeling beside the moose carcass, he studied the remains and grimaced. Denali had been right—a fresh kill. He spared another glance at the native before returning his focus on the perished moose. The body, still holding a trace of heat, steamed in the brisk morning air.

Taking in his surroundings again, he searched the dense woods for any sign of movement. There was a good chance the predator was nearby. Hopefully, the culprit was another animal. It would be easier to understand the needless kill by finding comfort in nature’s way of life, but he knew by the missing rack and discarded waste of good meat the damage had been done by man. An eager, out of state hunter who wanted a treasure to hang on the wall.

A trophy kill.

Disgusted, he stood. With his job as an officer for Fish and Game, he should be used to seeing such a blatant disregard for life. Perhaps even numb to it. But he wasn’t. He spared another glance in Denali’s direction. Nor would the tribe be. The deed tarnished everything they believed in.

Comes with the job, he reminded himself. Easing his conscience, he knew the department, highly honored with great field officers, would find the criminal. Nevertheless, it wasn’t easy to let go of the reins.

He focused on the remains, and his guts churned in revulsion. A sloshy sound on the tundra signaled Denali’s approach, but Blake refused to look up. He couldn’t. He knew what he’d see in his friend’s dark, coal stare and shared the same feeling. There was only one reason to kill an animal—as a source of food. Not some kind of ego-building prize.

Circling the carcass, he centered on several tracks a slight bit larger than a dog’s print in the mud. There were other culprits to consider.

“Bechechgeshii,” Denali stated in a deadpan tone.

Wolves.

Blake nodded in agreement. It appeared to be a large pack; however, they had come after the kill, and from the looks of things, hadn’t stayed long. He cursed out loud and drew in a deep breath.

Zipping his light jacket, he shook off the crisp, biting breeze. Even though it was close to fifty degrees, the wind brought a chill to the air, reminding him the cool spring wanted to hang on, despite being on the brink of summer and nearing the end of May.

Alaskan weather…quite the temptress. Soon, it wouldn’t be cold at all, nor would the few hours of night be shrouded by dark. Already, they had been granted eighteen hours of light a day. The sun had been setting in the early, wee hours of morning, and by mid-June, nightfall would be merely a memory. Just one of many things he loved about living in the land of the midnight sun.

Rounding the carcass again, he kneeled and focused on more prints in the mud. The wolves wouldn’t have cared if their prey was already dead. This winter had heavy snowfall. No doubt the scavenging pack was on the brink of starvation. The moose, dead or alive, never stood a chance.

He stood and spared another glance at his surroundings. The pack wouldn’t have gone far. Not with this much meat still to be eaten. The loud engine of the four wheelers more than likely scared them away, but not for long.

Blake subconsciously patted the .44 Magnum on his belt loop. The weapon would prove ineffective against an aggressive pack of wolves. Deciding their best bet would be to ride to a more populated area, he headed toward his machine, determined to return later with another officer or two and more fire power.

Denali knew how to use a gun, but his friend preferred a more natural approach, and Blake wasn’t willing to gamble with their lives. A knife would have even less of a chance against multiple predators.

He glanced to the rifle case strapped across the front handlebars of his machine. By the time he withdrew the weapon, it would be too late. A shudder coursed through his body. Better not to play the odds.

As if to confirm his decision, he heard a not so distant howl.

Regardless of the danger, Denali began to chant, and Blake closed his eyes, in honor of the Athabascan prayer. After every kill, it was customary to thank the animal for giving its life so others could live. This situation proved no different, regardless of the way in which the moose lost its life.

A few minutes later, the sullen warrior stomped away from the kill site and mounted his aged, green ATV. Before starting the machine, Denali speared him with an angry gaze. Emotion lined the man’s normally stoic face, and Blake swallowed hard, seeing the torment flashing in his friend’s ebony eyes.

“Wolves didn’t do that.” The Alaskan native thrust a thumb over his shoulder and pointed at the massacre behind him. “Bechechgeshii kill for food. Not sport.”

Blake nodded his head again and walked to his four-wheeler. What could he say? Denali was right—this damage had been done by man, not wolves. A fact he couldn’t change, but he’d be damned if he was going to let someone get away with such a shameless act.

He started his machine, and they began the slow trudge along the edge of the Kenai River toward home. With snow no longer on the ground, the all-terrain vehicles easily maneuvered around the pencil-thin birch and spruce trees. As soon as they were far enough away, Blake inhaled a deep breath and released the guarded hand he still held positioned on his gun.

His thoughts returned to the dead animal. At least it had been a lone bull. Not a cow with a calf, like he had stumbled across last week. A scowl furrowed his brow. The mother had been killed, for not even a quarter of meat. And the young calf had been left to fend for itself. Neither of the animals had a hope, inspiring a brash decision.

He refused to second guess himself. Bringing the calf to his home had been quite dicey, flirting with the termination of his job, but it had been better than his other options. And to Blake, his only choice.

The Moose Federation, already at its limit this year, could not take in anymore orphaned calves. And he didn’t have the heart to shoot the destitute animal. Not when he had plenty of land for the calf to roam. Over fifty acres of wooded property came in handy. There was more than enough territory for his horses and a wild animal or two. Besides, the calf wasn’t the first animal he had taken home to give a fighting chance. Nor, he doubted, would it be the last.

The splash of a small rainbow trout jumping out and then back into the water caught his attention. Blake stopped the machine, transfixed on the continuous ringed ripple the silvery fin left behind in the smooth, glasslike surface along a stagnant part of the Kenai River. Oh, how he wished he could spare a moment to cast a line out into the water.

No. It wouldn’t work. A few minutes would turn into an hour or two, and he would lose all track of time. Besides, he still had to call in the kill and return with the other officers to clean the site and see if any of the meat could be salvaged.

He’d just have to return tomorrow.

The perfect way to start a month vacation.

Undeterred by the many things he had planned on fixing around his ranch, a morning of fishing would come first. He’d make sure of it.

Pushing on, he continued the sluggish crawl over the marshy tundra, and extended his arm to block a low tree branch as his thoughts reverted back to the calf. He had yet to discuss the new addition of the orphan with Denali. To be honest, Blake was dreading the confrontation his impulsive act would inspire.

Living off the land, Denali and his tribe overlooked nature’s cruel, but necessary, ways. A lecture he was sure to hear the minute he told his friend about the calf. However, he would much rather hear the speech again than deal with the unsettling dispute he knew was brewing. Especially now, after Denali had seen another slain moose needlessly killed by the hands of man.

The approach of the summer season always brought discord in the tribe. It was the same every year with the inevitable threat of tourists nearing. This time, Denali would be the instigator and quite the driving force with his unveiled animosity.

Seeing both sides, it was difficult to ease his friend’s anxiety. The tourists provided a boost to the economy, yet, along with the necessary income, the visitors also brought a sense of disregard, failing to respect the land or the local customs. Soon, the riverbank would be flooded with wall to wall fisherman and the remote peacefulness would be invaded. Every year, it seemed as if there was more and more people.

Blake, raised in Alaska all of his life, fondly remembered a more isolated state. Those days were long gone. The draw of catching large salmon lured tourists in by the hundreds. Often they came without common sense. It never failed. At least one stubborn tourist would refuse to relinquish his fish to a hungry bear. Even if it meant death.

How many times had he rescued an outsider from a hungry grizzly? Or guided a foolish traveler on the ways to respect wildlife? Not to mention the hikers enjoying the nature. Most were ill-equipped in case of an emergency. Alaska, as beautiful as it was dangerous, proved to be no walk in the park.

A branch whipped Blake across his forehead, reminding him to focus on the trail. Shortly, the tourist season would be thrust upon him, and he found himself siding with Denali. Regardless of the added income, he also dreaded the upcoming intrusion.