Spring of the Poacher's Moon by Angela Dorsey

  Chapter 9

  I slid, silent and swift, back down the hill. If I waved at him from the tent corner as he approached to warn him, maybe he’d leave without asking the poachers any suspicious questions. Judging from how Charlie was with me, he wasn’t very good at talking to people and would probably say the wrong thing.

  I peeked around the edge of the big tent. There he was, riding his amazing horse into the poacher’s camp. I was about to wave when a new thought made me hold back. What if I was wrong about Charlie? What if he wasn’t a Wild Horse Ranger, but really one of the poachers? If I waved and he was one of them, I’d be so caught!

  And then he was past me and approaching the fire.

  Quickly, I moved back to peer through my favourite peephole. The two poachers were shifting nervously and staring into the flames, while the guide simply looked scared to death. Charlie had stopped his horse, and – oh, oh – I recognized that expression on his face. I’d seen it too often, directed at me. Intense and obvious suspicion. In another way though, I was relieved to see it. It meant he wasn’t one of the bad guys. Now, if he could just play it cool…

  “Hello. Name’s Charlie,” he said, and nodded a stiff greeting.

  “Martin,” said the guide. “What brings you out here, Charlie?”

  “Just checking on a mustang herd in the area and smelled the smoke. Wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

  Martin relaxed, just a bit. “Everything’s fine here. We’re keeping an eye on it. But it’s good of you to check.” His words didn’t match his tone. He wasn’t the least bit pleased that Charlie was doing the right thing. “You better be heading out soon. Night’s coming on.”

  Unfortunately, Charlie seemed to hear what I heard: the unspoken impatience. The barely veiled fear. His eyes narrowed further. “Mind if I have a bit of that coffee first?”

  Martin hesitated, then turned back to his ATV. “Help yourself.” He pulled a small daypack off of the back.

  Charlie’s saddle creaked as he dismounted his gorgeous horse. “You got a cup?”

  “Inside the cache,” said Martin and stalked toward me, or rather his tent. I jerked back and hunkered low, breathed quick and shallow through my mouth. Listened. Martin rustled around inside the tent.

  “You fellows from around here?” Charlie asked.

  There was no answer from the two poachers, and I imagined them both shaking their heads, no. I guessed they wouldn’t want Charlie to know they had accents, so even though they knew English, they wouldn’t speak.

  I heard Charlie walk toward the cache to get the cup – or I hoped it was Charlie. If it was, I had a second chance to warn him. But what could I do to signal the whole story to him. Pantomime a hunter shooting a gun? Pretend I was a dead moose?

  Charlie came into sight and bent over the cache. He pushed some stuff aside, pulled out a cup, straightened, and then noticed me waving frantically from behind the tent. His eyes opened wide. “Huh?” The exclamation was soft, but in the woods, things don’t need to be very loud to be heard.

  Quickly, I lifted up the canvas to show him the gory moose head. Understanding flooded his eyes and he looked quickly back at the fire, then let the cup drop back into the cache and stepped out of my sight.

  “You’re right. It’s getting late. I better be going,” Charlie spit out, clearly angry. “Thanks for the offer of coffee.”

  I cringed. They were going to know he’d seen the moose head. He’d have been much sneakier to drink their coffee, make innocent small talk, tell a joke, and then leave. I’m the backwoods girl who only talks to her mom and best friend and even I know that.

  “Why the rush all of a sudden?” Martin sounded more than scared now. He sounded mean. I risked a glance out my peephole, just in time to see Martin step between Charlie and his horse, while the old poacher grabbed the reins. The young poacher moved to the side, his eyes on the ground, and for a second I was reminded of one of those dogs who sneak up behind you before they bite you.

  Charlie and the guide faced each other like two bull moose. Of the three men, the two poachers and the guide, the guide had the most to lose if he were caught: his money with fines, his freedom with jail, and his reputation with his friends, if he had any friends. Not only did he have a lot at risk, but he was bigger and younger than Charlie. He probably thought that grabbing the old guy would be easy. I guessed differently. Charlie was probably more stubborn than the lot of them.

  But he was outnumbered too. And that was his undoing. As Charlie glared at Martin, the younger poacher slipped unnoticed behind him. I would have yelled to warn him, and then run off into the woods as fast as my legs could carry me, but the guy was so quick that he had both of Charlie’s arms pinned behind him before I could react. Then Martin sprang forward and grabbed one of Charlie’s arms.

  Run! I mind-shrieked at his horse.

  The horse reared, jerking his reins from the surprised poacher’s hand, then spun away and sprinted into the forest, more afraid of the scream that had echoed through his head than actually obeying my command. The poacher started after him, even though he was obviously never going to catch the horse, but then stopped short when Martin yelled for a rope.

  Charlie was strong. He made the poachers work hard to hang onto him, and it was no easy job tying him up either, but really he didn’t stand a chance. Within two minutes, he was lying on the ground between my hiding spot and the fire with both arms and legs securely bound and the three men standing over him with red faces, breathing heavily from their exertions.

  The son poacher glared down at Charlie, looking like he wanted to spit on him. “Now what we do?” he asked instead.

  Silence followed his words as the three pondered the answer to the question, and then the father poacher spoke in a deadly soft voice, “We get rid of him.”

  My heart lurched.

  Martin stepped back and his face drained of colour. I waited for him to say something to stop them. Clearly, he didn’t like the idea of getting rid of Charlie. Maybe he would give the poachers another option. Or defend Charlie. Or flatly refuse to let them hurt him. Instead, he said nothing as he stared down at Charlie with a blank, stunned face – and I saw that he was a coward at heart.

  Cowards didn’t risk themselves to save others.

  But he wasn’t the only one who could save Charlie. I could act too. I just had to figure out what to do. At the very least, I could run for help.

  But what if they hurt him while I was gone? What if they moved camp or left the bush and Charlie was never seen again? What if…

  Charlie sat up. He looked up at his captors, and though his back was to me, I could imagine the sneer of disgust on his face. Then he did something that seemed totally un-Charlie-like. He scooted backwards a few inches, away from them.

  There was no way he could escape, tied like a calf ready for branding, and they knew it. They ignored him as he inched backwards. So why was he doing it?

  Then I understood. Charlie was doing more than inching away from them. He was inching toward me.

  And I knew how to save Charlie.