Eric watched him go, keenly aware that of all men, only his father engendered a fiercer sense of attachment and loyalty than did this man. His drawling reference to Eric as Ricky, and himself as Doc, brought old memories flooding back. Everyone in the village except his father and mother called Clifford Cameron “Doc.” And for as long as he could remember, Doc had always called him Ricky. That had changed six years ago, shortly after Eric’s eighteenth birthday. It had been late fall, and he had accompanied Doc and his father on a week-long hunting trip to supplement their winter meat stocks. Just after sundown of the third day, they had found a huge bull moose grazing in a marshy area of the forest. Eric could still vividly remember the huge rack of antlers, silhouetted against the sky.

Eric’s father had taken the shot, but to their surprise the moose gave a wild bellow, then crashed away into the brush. Positive it had been hit, the three had cautiously started out after it, his father taking the point, Eric and Doc about twenty yards back and thirty yards apart. The light was rapidly fading, but large splashes of blood were easily discernible in the wet grass. His father had just entered a thick stand of pines when the underbrush off to the right of Doc exploded. Out hurtled a black mass of fury, weighing over eighteen hundred pounds and standing seven feet high at the shoulders. With a startled cry, Doc spun around—too fast. His feet shot sideways in the mud, and he went down.

To this day, Eric still maintained he had reacted in blind panic, but he dropped to one knee and snapped off a quick shot over the prone figure. It was as though he had used a scythe on the moose’s front legs. Nearly a ton of raging flesh slammed into the mud and slid to a shuddering halt less than ten feet from Doc’s scrambling figure. The bullet had caught the bull just below his left eye and shattered in his brain.

Both of the older men expressed their breathless thanks, but it was later that night, as the long strips of moose meat were being cured in a heavy smoke, that Eric had started to say something to Cliff, calling him Doc. He had raised his hand, interrupting him. “Why don’t you call me Cliff?” Even now, the memory sent a thrill of warmth shooting through Eric. And that was the last time—until just a few minutes ago—that Cliff had called him Ricky.

Eric shook his head impatiently at the sudden surge of emotions, laid the rifle butt against his cheek, and sighted in on the fallen pine tree.

CHAPTER 2