Martin Marten (9781466843691) by Brian Doyle Read Free Book Online

the beneficiary of her pelt before it turns to dust in a cave somewhere.
    It’s interesting to me, said Miss Moss, emerging suddenly above the counter, how some animal beings on the mountain become famous among human beings, generally for their elusiveness. They are like football running backs no one can easily catch, and so their legends develop.
    Also size, said the trapper equably. Bears, for example. Or Louis the elk.
    Although I might argue, said Miss Moss, that Louis is famous not because he is big but because everyone wants to shoot him every year, and no one has yet in more years than any of us can easily remember. That animal might be a hundred years old. Though it is entertaining when hunters claim they shot him and they didn’t.
    Not so entertaining for the elk they did shoot thinking it was old Louis, said the trapper. But I am not picking on hunters who eat their meat. You have to eat, and you have to feed your kids; that’s the agreement if you have kids—you have to actually take care of them. I have a problem with rack hunters, but who am I to talk, catching and skinning Rocky Raccoon? It’s not like I eat him, after all. Which reminds me, I better get to work. I got a lot of work to do this summer before the season opens. You’d be surprised how little actual trapping a trapper does. Mostly it’s walking and looking. They should call us wookers instead of trappers, or lawkers. You got to do a lot of walking homework in spring and summer before trapping exams in the fall. I thought I was all done with school when I graduated from Zigzag High, but no—still studying for tests all year long. Thanks for the fire, Ginny. My old cold bones feel better here than anywhere, and that’s a fact.
    Be safe, be well, drive careful, said Miss Moss, and she vanished again behind the counter, to tinker with something or other.

 
    9
    DAVE WALKED IN THE FRONT DOOR of the store, noticing that the bell that was supposed to jangle and clang when someone entered was broken. This was exactly the conversational opening he needed, for he was here to boldly ask Miss Moss for a job. His sister Maria said there was no way Miss Moss would be able to afford a helper, didn’t Dave ever notice that Miss Moss was the only employee in Miss Moss’s store? How could someone with no employees hire an employee suddenly? But Dave thought he would ask, and he had armed himself with information that only a sharp eye would gather about Miss Moss’s store and environs: the broken bell; the vast incoherent disorganized welter of things out back that could be organized and categorized and offered for sale; and the fact that Miss Moss had no online presence whatsoever, even though surely the tourists and skiers and hikers and hunters and trappers who stopped at the store for one thing or another would be interested in being informed about products specifically aimed at their expressed interests and/or purchasing histories, to name the first three things that Dave had written down and had clutched in his hand.
    But where was Miss Moss?
    Right here, she said, once again emerging suddenly from behind the counter and smiling at Dave. What were you looking for this time, Dave? Traps for bears?
    No, ma’am, said Dave. This time I am here to propose something.
    You’re here to propose to me? I am very honored.
    No, ma’am, said Dave, blushing instantly and thoroughly. I am here to propose that you employ me in any capacity whatsoever, and I have several reasons and ideas about why employing me would be a good thing for the store.
    I have been proposed to, you know, said Miss Moss. Twice. Well, one and a half times, to be accurate.
    Ma’am? said Dave, a little rattled; he had been prepared to launch into his speech, which he had practiced for an hour with Maria, Maria acting as Miss Moss, complete with spectacles and sandals and wry amused tone of voice.
    The first time was a little confusing, and I am not quite sure even now if the young man in