“It’s not posted. You’ve got as much right to be here as I do, but legal don’t mean safe,” the man said.
Bob approached the man.
“My name is Bob. I live over on the Location Road.”
The old man nodded.
“My name’s Clyde. Everyone calls me Buster though.”
“Nice to meet you, Buster. My friend and I were wondering who owns this lot. It says on the map that it’s owned by the town?”
“Yup,” Buster said. “It is. You fellas need to come over here. I’ll fix you up.”
“Pardon?” Alan asked.
Buster waved them closer.
Bob got there first as Buster produced a small bag that was slung over his shoulder. Buster leaned his shotgun against the side of the cabin and leaned over to unzip his bag. He came back up with two handkerchiefs. They were bright orange—even brighter than Buster’s overalls.
“Put this around your head or at least tie it around your arm. I shouldn’t have to tell you—today’s the first day of Moose season and the Massholes will shoot at anything. And you’re walking around in brown pants, and your friend here has got on a brown jacket. You two might as well be wearing a Bullwinkle costume. I have half a mind to shoot you myself,” Buster said. He chuckled. The sound was throaty and warm.
“I thought hunting season didn’t start until November,” Alan said.
Alan took one of the handkerchiefs and tied it around his upper arm. Bob tied his around his head, with the triangle of orange in the back.
“There—now nobody can say I didn’t give you a sporting chance,” Buster said. His stained smile was little comfort. “Deer season starts in November for firearms. You’ve got archery in October, but we don’t get a lot of that around here. This week is moose. I suggest you do your hiking on Sunday from now on and keep it that way until Christmas.”
“So whose cabin is this?” Alan asked. “Do you know?”
“I do indeed. I didn’t catch your name,” Buster said.
“Sorry—I’m Alan Harper.”
“I’ve seen you somewheres, and I’ve heard that name,” Buster said. “Over to the dump maybe? Does your wife own the Colonel’s house?”
“Yes,” Alan said. “That’s our house. The Colonel was her grandfather.”
“I liked him,” Buster said. “No matter what they all said.” He gave Alan an exaggerated wink.
“The cabin?” Bob asked, trying to get the old man back on track.
“Yes?”
“If the town owns the land, then whose cabin is it?”
“Well the town’s, I guess,” Buster said. “Quid pro quo, as they say.”
“The town built it?”
“Nope,” Buster said. “The town owns it though. Bunch of old boys who were contemporary with my father built the thing. They built it to last. Town took it over when they took the parcel. There wasn’t anyone left to pay the tax on it, so they just took it back. Nobody fought them. It’s not worth a shit anymore.”
“So nobody really owns it?” Alan asked.
“You catch on quick,” Buster said with another wink. “Back when your house was the only house on this end of the road, this whole area here was pasture. The land down there wasn’t much good for grazing. The ground’s too soft. That marsh will suck the feet right off’n a cow. So the locals harvested the marsh grass. They could dry it out and use it for hay in a pinch. Once all the dairies moved away and the woods grew up, then the old boys used this cabin as a hunting lodge. My father said he could come out at dawn for a piss and shoot three bucks from the porch. It’s no good for that now though.”
“Oh?” Bob asked.
Buster burped and nodded.
“You’ll want to head that way until you get to the road,” Buster said, pointing. “If you see my truck out there, you can leave the bandanas on the seat. If you hear someone else in the woods, I suggest you start yelling at the top of your lungs. A Masshole will still shoot you, but maybe the yelling will throw off his aim a bit.”
“Buster, we saw something in the marsh last week. We came back to see if we could find out anything about it,” Bob said.
“Is that right?” Buster asked. He slung his bag over his shoulder and then picked up his shotgun.
“It looked like a body. I guess it was some kind of dead animal,” Alan said.
“We had the sheriff out here, but the thing was gone. Something must have dragged it away,” Bob said.
Buster tucked the shotgun over his arm and then folded his hands low, under his belly. The barrel of his shotgun pointed lazily off into the woods.
“Have you ever seen anything out here that looks kinda like a person, but it’s like a mottled purple color?” Alan asked.
“Purple?” Buster asked. He narrowed his eyes.
“Yes,” Alan said. “It might have been bruised, or maybe it just looked purple because it was decomposing.”
“You touch the thing?” Buster asked.
“No,” Bob said.
“Poke it? Move it? Molest it in some way?” Buster asked.
“No, of course not,” Alan said.
“What makes you so sure it was dead?” Buster asked.
“It wasn’t moving,” Alan said.
“And it smelled and had flies all over it,” Bob said.
“And then you left and when you came back it was gone?” Buster asked.
“Yes,” Bob said.
“And did you see any sign that something else had carried it away?”
“No,” Bob said.
“Doesn’t sound dead to me,” Buster said.
“But have you seen anything like that?” Bob asked.
“Or heard of anything like that around here?” Alan asked.
Buster shook his head and walked between the men.
“Quid pro quo, as they say. Doesn’t sound dead at all,” Buster said. He veered to the right and left Alan and Bob standing there. Buster disappeared into the woods. They couldn’t see his orange overalls anymore, but for awhile they could still hear his shuffling feet brushing through the leaves.
“Nice guy,” Alan said. “He’s going to have to put some more effort in if he wants to pull off that ‘creepy-old-timer’ vibe.”
“I think he was flirting with you,” Bob said.
“Dudunt sound deyud ut uhl,” Alan said, imitating Buster’s accent.
Bob laughed.
“That’s pretty good. You need more phlegm in there though.”
“What’s a Masshole?” Alan asked.
“Massachusetts asshole,” Bob said. “Every couple of years someone gets shot by an out-of-state hunter. People call them Massholes.”
“Clever.”
Bob started walking towards the hill that sloped down to the pond.
“What do you think?” Bob asked. “Should we keep looking around or get out of here before we get shot by a moose hunter?”
“Let’s push our luck some more,” Alan said. He followed Bob.
They picked their way down the hill again. It was easier this time—they’d learned the trick of veering south where the hill was more manageable. Soon they found themselves at the edge of the wetlands, where the trees dwindled and tall grass took over. Bob pointed towards a matted down area and the men started carefully moving into the grass. It grew in clumps. If you balanced on top of the grassy stumps, you could avoid plunging a foot into the wet weeds below. Alan moved quickly, hopping between the clumps and balanced on a big one right near the matted area. He waved his hand—there were a few confused flies buzzing slowly.
“You think he was right? You think the things just walked off?” Bob asked.
Alan shrugged. “Looked dead to me.”
Alan slid his camera bag around to his front so he could unzip it. He’d brought one of his second-string camera bodies. It wouldn’t break his heart if it got dunked. Alan documented the pressed down grass. It looked like some animal had circled to make a mat of the grass. The flattened stalks formed a counterclockwise spiral. While Alan shot, Bob moved on. Alan tested his weight on the grass. Where it was flattened, the ground under the grass felt more firm. Alan could walk around the small circle without plunging through. Alan paced it off—the circle was about five feet across.