Plenty were on the ground in the yellow pine grove.
By the time Chip had rounded up a small pile of wood, Telford had laid out the three-sixteenth steel cable, commonly used in aircraft controls.
"Strip the dead stuff off those branches," Telford instructed. "We'll arrange them in a V-fashion out from the trunk and then put the bait at the point where the V closes...."
They'd backpacked in several pounds of stale cinnamon buns.
"Pretty simple, eh?" said Telford, as he straightened up from looping the cable around the loblolly. "Now, let's do the V. Start it about two feet from the trunk."
"Won't that cable hurt the bear?" Chip asked.
Telford shook his head. "Old-fashioned leg-hold traps did hurt. Some states have banned 'em. This'll just hold him in place by a forepaw."
Soon, the five-foot V was formed, and then the working end of the snare was laid down. "Like humans, they don't like to walk on small sticks in their bare feet, so we'll place 'stepping sticks' around the loop to limit the area and make him put his paws down where we want him to, right on the trigger."
Chip carried the sticks over and watched as Telford arranged them.
"Okay, trigger next. Well hide it under pine needles, test it. If it works okay, we'll set the bait, then come back tomorrow morning to see if we've caught ourselves a live Carolina black."
They finished the snare in another twenty minutes, carefully laying down the pine-needle pathway to the two pounds of cinnamon buns.
"Do you always put them near a tree?"
"Yep. And the tree must be big enough. You have to anchor the cable."
Going back to the truck, Telford said, "We'll probably set more right in trails than anywhere else. They use the same ones again and again. You dig under the prints, place the snare, then cover it with leaves or pine needles...."
During the morning, Chip told him about visiting Jack Slade.
Telford shrugged. "Tell a hunter he can't hunt in his own backyard and you've got a problem."
They placed four more snares about a mile apart, two of them on trails covered with prints, before winding up in late afternoon.
"We'll check all of them early tomorrow to see what we've caught," Telford said.
"They always get trapped at night?"
"Anytime. But we'll check them constantly in this warm weather so they won't spend much time in captivity. The idea is to catch them, do all the necessary things, then turn them loose. Two hours or less if possible."
Soon Chip was crossing the lake toward home.
***
ALVIN HOWELL was a worn-out subject in the Sanders house. Sam's papa said two years ago that he never wanted to hear the name again, and even Sam's usually sympathetic mother said it was high time to bury Mr. Howell forever.
But Mrs. Howell's mention of Alvin raising fighting roosters and gambling on them sent Sam to Dunnegan's on her bike. She considered Dunnegan her best adult friend.
There was always a rich coffee smell in his store, most people around the Powhatan drinking fresh-ground regular. Decaf was considered dishwater. Dunnegan had all the usual 7-Eleven, AM-PM, and Jiffy Market wares, plus fishhooks and sinkers and lures, shotgun shells, duck calls, and decoys. Worm beds were out in back, night crawlers being a big item.
Dunnegan had a first name, Desmond, which he didn't like, so everyone in the area called him by his last name. A bald-headed, pudgy man, he was in his early forties. He'd bought the general store about ten years ago but had almost lost it to Kentucky bourbon, booze on his breath from dawn to dark. So Sam hadn't been surprised to learn that Dunnegan went to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in Lizzie City.
After buying a Sprite, popping it, and taking a sip, Sam asked, "You know anyone around here who goes to cockfights?"
Dunnegan's brows inched up. "Hmh. A few. Why do you ask?"
"Alvin Howell raised gamecocks and bet on them, his widow said."
"I haven't heard his name in years. Yeah, he was into cockfights, as I remember. It's not legal, you know. I only went to one and didn't stay. I drove ol' Jack Slade to a barn on a farm off East One Fifty-nine. It was a tournament fight, with steel spurs on the roosters. I couldn't stomach it and told Jack to find another way home. Just the sight..."
He stopped and widened his frown. "Why do you ask?"
"I think gambling on those fights had something to do with his murder."
"Whoa, Samuel! You found him, I remember."
She nodded.
"Give you some good advice. Forget all about Alvin Howell, and stay away from those gamecock people. They're mostly no-goods. By mostly I mean ninety-nine percent. Some sport. Chicken fights..." He made a sour face.
"Anyone else, aside from Jack Slade?"
"You couldn't pay me to tell you, and I'm sorry I mentioned his name. You caught me by surprise. You ought to be headin' home."
Sam agreed and departed, but not before she asked, "Where does he live?"
"Pardon me, I just forgot...."
***
THE YELLOWFLIES ate the swamp mosquitoes—but they were a lot more vicious to humans than to mosquitoes, so Chip and his father were safely inside at dusk, behind window and door screens, out in the kitchen.
"This has to be the best day of my life, the best day. There may have been better ones before I was six, but I can't remember any."
"I'm glad. I'm really glad."
"And the thing I like about Telford is that he never once belittled me. He made me an equal, looking at me steadily while talking to me. I've told you that people I've known for a while do that, but strangers usually look away."
Taking a deep breath, Clewt nodded, preferring to make no comment. He always avoided talking about Chip's appearance.
"I didn't learn too much about him, except that he's not married. He talked mainly about bears and promised I'd know most of what he knows by the time we— he actually said 'we'—are finished."
"That's good."
"You ever been close to one?"
Clewt shook his head.
Chip laughed. "I may actually touch one tomorrow."
"Hope you do."
Chip talked until they both went off to bed about nine, the Powhatan beginning to fade into noisy darkness.
***
MILD, cloudy June dawn, bird chatter having begun at soft, new, pink light: Chip stood in awe beside Telford looking at their first captive twenty feet away, a big male tied off to the loblolly. Frustrated and fuming, grunting, he'd scattered the branches and churned up the ground in a ten-foot radius trying to break loose from the steel tether.
"He'll be more than three hundred pounds, bigger than average," said Telford, studying the captive, pleased with its size. "We'll use the dart rifle to put him to sleep. If he was smaller I'd use the jab-stick. The force of the dart sometimes causes muscle trauma."
A blowgun syringe was also in the truck. Each syringe carried tranquilizing potions mixed according to the bear's weight.
Chip stared at the angry black as it pulled against the wire noose that firmly held its left front paw, then rose on its hind legs to look at them with puffy red eyes, "whuffing" at them, clacking its teeth, then dropping back to all fours.
"He's probably been doing that all night, getting madder by the minute, so let's put him to sleep," Telford said, loading the dart gun with the tranquilizing mixture. "So you'll know, Rompun is the trade name for xylazine hydrochloride, a sedative; and Ketacet is actually ketamine hydrochloride. Vets use them all the time. They're safe, if you mix them carefully and use the right amounts. Much smaller doses for females."
Still staring at the animal, Chip was lost over the chemical terms. He'd ask about them later.
The bear suddenly sat down, crossing his front paws. He returned Chip's stare curiously—as if he was trying to figure out what these silly two-legged animals were. Dirt and twigs and pine needles had lodged in his thick coat, which was jet black. His nose was whitish brown. His leathery nostrils were wet and s
hining from exertion.
Telford made a sudden move toward him, yelling, "Hey, you, get up! Get up!" and aiming the dart rifle. "I need to hit him in the flank," he said to Chip.
Coming erect at the sudden, hostile movement, the bear became a target for a brief few seconds, and Telford pulled the trigger. The dart drove into his left hindquarter.
Watching it strain against the tether, feeling the bear's frustration and helplessness, Chip even felt a bit sorry that it was captured.
"Usually they go under in five to fifteen minutes. Fatter they are, the longer it takes. Fat absorbs the drug. This one'll take twelve to fifteen, I'd guess."
"What happens if they wake up before you're finished?"
"You have a problem. Hurry, is what you do."
Telford had laid out the radio-collar, the lip tattoo device, a vacuum-tube syringe to draw off a blood sample, and several yellow plastic ID ear tags. Also on the square of canvas was a pair of forceps, used to extract a tooth to determine age. They'd lugged in a tripod for lifting and weighing the bear.
"You'll learn soon enough. We'll try to do a hundred animals over the next two years. There are enough radio frequencies to track thirty at a time...."
A few minutes later, Bear 1-88—number one in the 1988 study—began to blink, a sign that the Rompun and Ketacet were taking effect. On all fours and quiet, he was looking around vacantly as if he realized something odd was happening to him. He swallowed and stuck his tongue out.
Chip thought about the moments before he himself had gone under the plastic surgeon's knife—the feeling of floating. Sounds became remote. Vision became blurred. He felt a sudden kinship with the bear, as if he were inside it.
Telford talked on quietly, watching the animal closely. "Some researchers put them on their chests, spread out, chins on the ground. The side works better for me. Roll them either way."
The bear swayed, then sank slowly down, winding up on his belly.
"There he goes," Telford said, as the head dropped to the sand.
"Okay, Chip, let's go to work," he said, simultaneously loosening the noose from the limp paw. Then he rolled the bear over onto his left side.
"Come on up close. He's out, I promise."
Chip stepped over to the big body hesitantly.
"Kneel down and hold his eyelids open. This is ophthalmic ointment so his eyes won't dry out from the drugs. I promise you he's on Cloud Ten."
Chip knelt down, knees touching the bear's warm back, gingerly opening an eyelid, barely breathing.
"That's it."
Several squirts in each eye, and then Telford placed a rag over the bear's face to shield it from light.
"Now we'll do the ears. Let's get the right one first. Hold it up for me."
He punched a tiny hole in it, then secured the yellow ID tag labeled 1-88.
"And in case the tags come off, we'll tattoo inside his mouth. What I want you to do is fold the upper lip up while I brush ink on, then give him the number."
Chip laughed nervously at the thought of opening the bear's mouth.
Telford checked the tattoo device, a small hand-held, three-digit contraption, then said, "Okay, peel his lip up."
Chip lifted the rag. The big canines were less than half an inch away from his bent fingers as the purple ink was brushed on; the device's needles inserted the numbers in a few seconds.
"Now, the tough job. We've got to weigh this acorneater," said Telford.
Chip had noticed four dog collars in his backpack! Soon one was around each ankle of the slumbering black. Then the tripod, with the scale hanging from it, was rigged over 1-88. They attached wires to the collars, and then Telford said, "Let's heave him up."
With his right arm, Chip helped pull on the lifting tackle, raising the black a few inches off the ground. The scale registered 320. Lowering away, Chip grinned over at Telford. "Glad I've been doing weights the past two years. This guy's a load!"
"Yeah."
Chip looked at his watch. Forty minutes had passed, and the bear showed no signs of awakening.
Handing over a notebook, Telford said, "I'll read off some measurements. Just jot them." Paw length, paw width, ear length, claw lengths, belly girth.
It wasn't one of those phony stand-around Columbus, Ohio, jobs that were given to anyone who wasn't all there in body parts. It was physical, glory be!
Telford then quickly took the bear's temperature with a rectal thermometer, calling out, "Ninety-eight."
Next he drew off blood from a femoral vein, saying, "This'll tell us about his nutrition." The blood went into a cooler. Finally, Telford extracted a premolar.
Still on his knees beside the" bear, Telford said, "Okay, let's wrap this up. Bring me the collar."
Made of durable nylon webbing, the collar was resting on the canvas "operating square." Chip brought it over. The tiny transmitter and lithium battery were encased in waterproof material; the battery had a life of twenty-four to thirty-six months. The antenna was protected between two layers of the belting material.
On the collar was a small plastic plate that offered a reward to anyone who found the collar and returned it to NC State. The ear tags had the same message, requesting details on where and when found.
"Some of them will get killed by cars, poachers, or farmers, or maybe die of disease. Sometimes they kill each other. Big males sometimes kill cubs. Unfortunately, the Indians were wrong—they don't live forever. Twenty-five years is about it, even for healthy ones."
He put the collar around the neck of 1-88.
"This spacer will rot out in eight to twelve months, and the collar'll drop off. Watch, you fit it so it won't fall off, yet doesn't fit tight enough to choke him." The spacer was made of cotton webbing.
Once the collar was in place, Telford lifted the rag off the bear's eyes and rose.
"Do we stick around until he wakes up?" Chip asked.
"Nope. He'll just run off into the brush when he comes out of it."
Gathering the gear, they returned to the truck and went on toward the next snare site, about a mile away.
"Do you ever name any of the bears?" Chip asked.
"I don't. Be my guest."
Chip said, after a moment's thought, "I think that one should be called Henry."
He looked like a comic, a clown. Henry!
***
THERE were bears in three of the four snares, Henry being the largest, and by day's end Chip was measuring, putting on collars, and using the thermometer, generally making himself useful.
That evening, he said to his father, "Imagine me sticking a thermometer up a bear's bung. I did it! Right up there."
John Clewt laughed. "Not many people can say that."
"God, Telford is great! He knows so much about these bears. I haven't had such a good time in years," Chip said, face showing it.
"That's the best news I've heard in a long while," his father said. "The very best..."
Clewt's own face said more than words. There'd been a lot of uncertainty, many sleepless nights, after he'd convinced Chip to come and live with him in the Powhatan. Almost total strangers to each other at that point, nearly enemies, neither of them had known how it would all work out.
***
BARBARA "Binkie" Petracca had come by the Dairy Queen on Broad just before closing time. Sam, in her red DQ smock and baseball cap, was closing up. Her night to stay late. The other two girls had gone home an hour earlier. Cleaning took most of a half hour with sponges and hot water after the doors were locked at nine o'clock.
"Anyone 'interesting' today?" Binkie asked idly, sitting sideways in a booth, feet over the edge. Binkie had an oval face and olive skin, beautiful teeth and a nice smile, but porky legs.
Sam knew what she meant. Boys. Gliding the sponge along the counter, Sam said, "No."
The assistant manager, Dennis, older than Sam by five years, was counting money in the back room. Dennis was never impressed with what the teenage help had to say, anyway. They were to be
tolerated, at best.
Along with Darlene Austin, Binkie was Sam's best friend. Since Darlene and Binkie were lucky enough to live in Currituck, when school wasn't in session visiting was usually limited to the phone. Or on afternoons or nights when they stopped by the DQ to chat, such as now. They were a threesome at occasional movies; shopped together sometimes; and shared burgers at Ashbum's over on Riddle, near the high school, a hangout of sorts. Hardee's, near City Hall, was for families and older folks.
Laughter hiding a measure of pain and frustration, they called themselves the "Wanting Sisters," a takeoff on those post office posters for high crimes, two chubbies and a skinny waiting to be wanted. Darlene looked a httle like Roseanne Barr, and Binkie was stubby. Then there was Sam. Of the three, Sam had the best chance of beating the physical rap. Her thin arms and pipe-stem legs were certain to pick up some shape down the line.
The Wanting Sisters hung out together in Albemarle Unified, sat side by side at football and basketball games. As if their heads were mechanically controlled, they looked as one when a choice boy came through the door at Ashbum's. Then they dissected him. They did it for fun and laughs. At times, they also did it wishing they could walk out on his arm.
Yet the Wanting Sisters were among the brightest in AHS, and they had other talents. Binkie was star slugger and catcher for girls' Softball. Darlene played an astonishing violin and sang contralto in the choir. Sam was the best guard girls' basketball had had in years.
"Papa's on my back again," Sam said.
"For what?"
"He wants me to quit because of what happened last week. Said we could be next."
There'd been a holdup at Burger King, which was in the next block on Broad.
"And do what?" Binkie asked.
"He didn't say. Maybe clerk in some store that shuts the doors at five o'clock. Shoe store, drugstore, any daylight store..."
"And what does your mom say?"
"Silencio. Nothing. My mama is the smartest woman on earth when it comes to Papa. She waits until the right time to talk, then attacks. In bed, I think."