They went out of the smokehouse and saw Carmella and the bear hound, standing transfixed exactly where they'd left them--as if only a violent change in the weather would have persuaded the woman and the dog to rethink their positions. "Come on, Hero," Ketchum said, and Carmella dutifully followed the hound to the truck--as if the old river driver had also spoken to her. Ketchum lifted Hero, putting the injured dog in the back of the pickup.
"You'll have to indulge Six-Pack, Danny," Ketchum was saying, as they got into the cab of his truck--Carmella taking up more than her share of room, in the middle. "Pam has something she wants to say to you both," Ketchum told them. "Six-Pack's not a bad person, and I suspect she just wants to say she's sorry. It was my fault that I couldn't read, remember. I never blamed Pam for telling Carl what really happened to Injun Jane. It was the only thing Six-Pack had over the cowboy, and he must have made her use it."
"I never blamed Six-Pack, either," Danny told him; he tried to read Carmella's expression, which seemed slightly offended, but she didn't say anything. There was a bad smell in the cab; maybe the smell had offended Carmella.
"It won't take too long, anyway--Six-Pack will have Hero to attend to," Ketchum said to them. "Hero barely tolerates Pam's dogs when he's not all clawed up. This morning could be interesting." They drove out the road advertising small engine repairs, though Danny somehow doubted that this was Ketchum's sign, or that Ketchum had ever been in the business of repairing other people's small engines; maybe the logger just fixed his own, but Danny didn't ask. The smell was overpowering; it had to be the bear, but why had the bear been in the cab?
"We met a guy who knows you--a salesman at L. L. Cote," Danny told Ketchum.
"Is that so?" the riverman said. "Was he a nice fella, or do I take it that you met the one asshole who works there?"
"I believe that's the one we met, Mr. Ketchum," Carmella said. The horrible smell traveled with them; definitely the bear had been in the cab.
"Fat fella, always wears camouflage--that asshole?" Ketchum asked.
"That's the one," Danny said; the bear smell almost made him gag. "He seems to think you're half-Indian."
"Well, I don't know what I am--or what the missing half of me is, anyway!" Ketchum thundered. "It's fine with me if I'm half-Injun--or three-quarters-Injun, for that matter! Injuns are all a lost nation, which suits me fine, too!"
"That fella seemed to think your road was no longer called Lost Nation Road," Danny told the old woodsman.
"I ought to skin that fella and smoke him with my bear!" Ketchum shouted. "But you know what?" he asked Carmella, more flirtatiously.
"What, Mr. Ketchum?" she asked him fearfully.
"That fella wouldn't taste as good as bear!" Ketchum hollered, laughing. They swerved onto Akers Pond Road and headed to the highway. Danny held the new glass jar with his dad's ashes tightly in his lap; the old container, now empty, was pinched between his feet on the floor of the cab. The glass jar was bigger; the cook's ashes, together with the herbs and spices, filled it only two-thirds full. It was once an apple-juice jar, Danny saw by the label.
Ketchum drove to that well-kept trailer park on Route 26, just outside Errol--the Saw Dust Alley campground, where Six-Pack Pam had a trailer. Six-Pack's home, which was no longer mobile--it was set on cinder blocks, and half surrounded by a vegetable garden--was actually two trailers that had been joined together. A kennel kept the dogs out of the garden, and a large, hinged door of the kind cats usually use allowed Pam's dogs free access between the kennel and the trailers. "I've tried to tell Six-Pack that a full-grown fella could come through that fucking dog door, though I suspect there's no fella around here who would dare to," Ketchum said. Hero had a hostile look about him as Ketchum lifted the dog from the back of the pickup. "Don't get your balls crossed," Ketchum told the hound.
Danny and Carmella had not seen Six-Pack, who was kneeling in her garden. On her knees, she was almost as tall as Carmella was standing. Pam got to her feet--unsteadily, and with the help of a rake. Danny only then remembered how big she was--not fat, but big-boned, and nearly as tall as Ketchum. "How's your hip?" Ketchum asked her. "Getting up off your knees isn't the best thing for it, I suppose."
"My hip is better than your poor dog," Six-Pack told him. "Come here, Hero," she said to the hound, who went over to her. "Did you kill the bear all by yourself, or did this asshole hunter finally get around to shootin' it?"
"This asshole bear hound got too far ahead of me. When Hero got to the bear, I wasn't in range!" Ketchum complained again.
"Old Ketchum ain't as fast as he used to be, is he, Hero?" Six-Pack said to the dog.
"I shot the damn bear," Ketchum told her peevishly.
"No shit--of course you did!" Pam said. "If you hadn't shot the damn bear, your poor dog would be dead!"
"I'm giving Hero an antibiotic for that ear," the logger said to Six-Pack. "I thought you might put some of that gunk you've got on his claw wounds."
"It ain't gunk--it's sulfa," Six-Pack told him.
The dogs in the kennel were an overeager-looking lot--mongrels, for the most part, though there was one that appeared to be close to a purebred German shepherd. Hero had his eye on that one, even with a fence between them.
"I'm sorry for your business here, Danny," Six-Pack Pam said. "I'm sorry for my part in it, however long ago it was," she added, this time looking directly at Carmella when she spoke.
"It's okay," Danny said to Six-Pack. "There was no preventing it, I guess."
&
nbsp; "Everyone loses people," Carmella told her.
"I kinda fancied Cookie, once," Six-Pack said, now looking at Danny. "But he wouldn't have nothin' to do with me. I suppose that was part of what provoked me."
"You had the hots for Cookie?" Ketchum asked her. "High time I heard of it, I guess!"