Just before he sped off, something swished through the stunted woods ahead of him. The grass parted below a birch and he glimpsed chocolate-colored fur. Then Sanders heard a squeaking noise.

“Fookin’ fisher!” he said. Sanders revved the four-wheeler and gave chase. The trophy fisher bounded up the trail, using the open ground to gain speed. Sanders followed, only able to go so fast without flying off the seat. He gripped the bars with sweaty, eager hands. His eyes were electric behind his field glasses.

“Yeeeehoooo!”he shouted into the woods. “Yeeeehoooo!”

The fisher bobbed like an overgrown squirrel, its thick and luxurious tail not all that different from a fox’s except in color.

How’d you avoid my trap, fooker? Sanders thought. Doesn’t matter, eh? Soon you’ll be on my wall, a lone trophy in this season of not-so-plenty.

The four-wheeler gained on the fisher and Sanders unslung his shotgun. At the last moment, the fisher darted into thick brush and disappeared. Sanders killed the engine and entered the woods, where he crouched in the shadows. His breath was heavy, and sweat beaded on his nose and forehead. Sanders thought he heard the little fooker panting behind a grove of alder. After five minutes, he walked back to the fourwheeler. As he sat down, he couldn’t believe it. The fisher was back on the trail, thirty yards up! He cranked the engine and gave chase, closing in on the little bastard as he had before.

Hey, you ain’t a very smart guy, eh? he thought. The fisher gained speed, leaping over the water holes that Sanders had to lurch through. He went too fast through one of them and splashed his shirt sleeves with mud. The fisher continued to lead him down trail, almost to the orchard and Ron’s place. He and Ron had shared a few drinks over the years, but Ron had no idea of the four-wheeler trail he’d illegally hacked through his property. The key was making sure the trail ended well before the orchard. He always outsmarted tourists from Chicago, even if they did own property up here. That didn’t mean nothing.

The fisher reached trail’s end and disappeared into the vegetation near the orchard. Sanders parked the four-wheeler, grabbed his beer, and pursued. As he pushed through the brush, his face caught branches of colorful, dying leaves. That’s what the field glasses are for, eh? The barrel of his shotgun snagged and he snaked sideways to loosen it, performing a strange dance.

I can catch the bastard out in the open in the orchard, he thought. Sanders licked his lips in anticipation.

The lower forest spit him out.