I figure the “guy in a cave” thing is a local joke, like saying you need to speak to a man about a dog. Dalton certainly doesn’t elaborate. We go into the drive shed, and I get a much more in-depth ATV lesson than I did when I arrived.
Dalton may grumble that he doesn’t like explaining things, but he’s a natural teacher. He’s patient and … I won’t say enthusiastic, which implies a level of emotion I don’t think our sheriff is capable of, but it’s like when we discussed the hostiles in the forest, and I mentioned primates and there was a spark of genuine interest there. A hound catching a scent. Except, for Dalton, that intriguing scent isn’t prey—it’s knowledge.
When he finishes the safety lesson, he starts to explain how the throttle works, and then checks himself, as if realizing this is more than I need to drive it. But it’s not more than I want, and when I ask questions, he pairs the driving lesson with one on basic mechanics, so I can understand how an ATV operates.
Dalton’s not the only hound who likes to pursue a trail of knowledge. When we’re riding and he slows to give me directions or point out an obstacle, I always have a question—what’s that animal that scurried across the path? or what are those trees with the berries? At first he suspects I’m sucking up, and his eyes narrow as he carefully responds. But I genuinely want to know, and he must see that in my face, because soon he’s giving the answers freely.
When we stop and get off the ATV, I don’t ask why. I get the feeling that’s not the kind of question Dalton likes to answer. Instead, as we walk into a clearing off the path, I notice what looks like a campfire ring.
I point to it. “One of yours? Someone from the town, I mean?”
He hunkers down beside the ring. “We have our bonfires in the town square. If we light one out here, it’s usually on hunting trips, when you’re a lot farther from town than this. We’ll also build them at the logging area or the fishing ponds, when it gets cold. This is from settlers.”
“People who live outside the town but aren’t actually hostile.”
“Not actively hostile. If you stumble on them and point your gun, yeah, expect trouble. What you have here looks like a hunting party. Maybe trapping. You can tell it’s settlers because they use stones for the fire pit. The fire’s also a little too large. Hostiles are more careful. They’re also a little less…” He purses his lips, considering his word choice. “Structured.”
“They aren’t going to fuss with hauling in fire pit stones and a log to sit on.”
“Yeah.”
“And you can tell it’s a hunting or trapping party because…?”
He points. “Decaying offal pile over there. Scavengers dragged away the better parts. There’s a broken arrow here, which suggests hunting, but trapping is still a possibility.”
Even when he points, I can’t see what he’s indicating until I go over and have to crouch to make out the signs he picked up in a casual sweep.
“If you’re out on patrol, you need to write anything like this in the logs,” he says. “Your notes will tell me how fast I need to get out here to assess.”
“Is there a guide for what things mean?”
He gives me a look like I’m asking for an app for my phone. Then he taps the side of his head.
“It’s all up there,” I say. “It would be more helpful if you wrote it down.”
“Tried. No one read it. Either they don’t give a shit or they don’t have an eye for reading signs.” He pushes aside a branch. “Mostly the latter. Like Will. Fucking worst tracker ever. Once reported grizzly tracks that turned out to be boot prints. His boot prints.”
I laugh.
“People learn in different ways,” Dalton continues as he walks back to the path. “Will’s a smart guy. College educated. Pre-med before he joined the army. But reading doesn’t do it for him. Hearing it, doing it, that’s how he learns. So not much point in me writing shit down.”
We continue right past the ATVs. Soon I see why, as the path becomes so narrow that we can’t even walk side by side. When I notice a sandy patch alongside the trail, I crouch for a better look.
“Speaking of prints,” I say, “what are these?”
He barely gives them a glance. “Cat.”
“Bobcat? They seem small.”
He snorts. “No bobcats here. Lynx mostly. And one cougar.”
“One?”
“We’re a little out of their range, which runs in a swath from Whitehorse to Dawson City. There is one, though. Her prints are nearly as big as a grizzly’s. You can’t miss them. And stay out of her way, same as you would a grizzly. She’s no friendly kitty. Killed a guy on a hunting trip couple years back.”
“I didn’t see that in the files.”
“No investigation needed. She jumped from a tree. Landed on his back. Snapped his neck and dragged him off to her kittens.” He rubs his chin. “Who may also have hung around, now that they’re full grown.”
I peer up into the treetops.
“Too dense for her here,” he says. “And she’s not likely to strike when you have company. Predators are smart. They don’t bite off more than they can chew … or haul away.”
“Lovely…”
“The guy who got killed had wandered off from the party. We only knew what happened because he screamed and someone spotted the cat dragging his body away. I suspect she only went after him because of the kittens. Spring’s when you need to be particularly careful.”
“I won’t need to worry about it, since my six months are up by then.”
He grunts in acknowledgment. And yes, that stings, because I want him to be impressed enough already to change his mind, even if I haven’t made up my own.
“Lynx, then?” I say, pointing at the tracks again.
“Too small. Lynx aren’t big cats, but like cougars, they have oversized paws. Adaptation to walking on snow. Those prints are Felis catus. Domestic cat.”
“Isn’t that Felis domestica, Sheriff?”
“Nope. That would be a common but incorrect taxonomic name, Detective. It can also be Felis silvestris catus, which combines woodland and domestic cat. And in this case, that might be more accurate.”
“So they’re former house cats?”
He motions for me to resume walking as he says, “Escaped from town when they allowed them.”
“You have feral cats in the forest?”
“And dogs. Rabbits, chickens, few hogs. All descended from escapees. Dogs were for security. Cats for mousing. The others for food. Back when there were fifty, sixty people in Rockton, raising livestock made sense. Now? Too much land needed to raise more than a few dozen chickens for eggs and goats for milk.”
“Why did they get rid of the cats and dogs?”
“No idea. They weren’t documenting things back then. I do, for the day-to-day stuff—what kind of problem we faced and how we resolved it. For the dogs and cats, I’ve heard rabies outbreak. They put them down and didn’t want to risk bringing in more. I also heard it was something as stupid as allergies—one of Val’s predecessors was allergic, so he made a no-animal law, and no one’s changed it.”
“Have you considered changing it?”
He looks surprised by the question. “Course. You can’t just say that we should keep doing a thing just because it’s always been done. Cats eat their fill of mice, so upkeep is minimal. Dogs can eat the parts of game we throw out. Fresh water is plentiful. I’ve been considering it. Getting new animals—not taming the ones out here. You don’t do that shit. Once they’re wild, they stay wild.”
“Are the feral dogs dangerous?”
“Fuck, yeah. More than wolves. They’re bigger and meaner. Lot less scared of humans, too. It’s just wrong to go from being wild to tame or vice versa. If you see a dog, I’m not saying to shoot it on sight. But if it makes any aggressive moves? Yeah, you have to put it down.”
We step out of the woods into an open area near some foothills. I admire the scenery for a moment before coming back with, “But the cats are fine?”
“Unless they’re rabid. Or just crazy. It happens. Fucking with nature is a problem, like I said. Worst, though, are the hogs. More dangerous than the black bears.”
“Tell me the wild chickens aren’t dangerous.”
“Unless they fly out in front of your horse, which they do sometimes. Unseated a guy years back. Broke his neck. The rabbits, though? The rabbits haven’t killed anyone.” He pauses. “So far.”