7 Wild East Read online

  Wild East

  by

  Melanie Jackson

  Version 1.1 – May, 2012

  Published by Brian Jackson at KDP

  Copyright © 2012 by Melanie Jackson

  Discover other titles by Melanie Jackson at www.melaniejackson.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Prologue

  The pristine vastness of the mixed forest and scrub brush spread like a green carpet in all directions, covering the rolling hills and making them look deceptively soft and inviting. The air was crisp and clear, hinting at the autumn to come. Two hawks soared the thermals high overhead watching for the smallest movement below. Above the gentle sound of the breeze blowing through the trees came sounds of exertion. The source of these sounds proved to be a pair of heavily laden hikers. Each of the hikers wore a full-size backpack with a sleeping bag strapped to the bottom. Additional equipment was lashed to the sides of each bag. One of the hikers was limping badly while trying to support himself on a tree branch turned into a makeshift crutch.

  Reaching the top of a rise, the man in the lead stopped and removed his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. This man was Pete Mitchell, the lead surveyor on this project, and he was growing frustrated with the slow pace set by his assistant. He wore a light jacket with various emblems sewn to it that clearly identified him as a member of the Canadian Environmental Assessment Agency.

  “How far do you figure we’ve traveled so far today?” Mark Stripe asked while bracing himself against a large rock to rest his badly twisted ankle.

  “No more than five miles,” Pete replied in frustration. “Not far enough.”

  Mark sensed his superior’s disappointment.

  “I’m sure I can travel faster if we’d get back on a trail and stop cutting cross-country,” he said in exasperation.

  “I doubt it,” Pete replied under his breath.

  Pete unbelted his pack and shimmied out from under the arm straps. Laying the pack gently on the ground, he began unbinding the tripod he carried lashed to its side. Pete took particular care in unpacking the theodolite, a precision piece of equipment used to measure horizontal and vertical angles. With the tripod set up, he set the theodolite on top and began the process of leveling the small tower.

  Looking through the eyepiece of the device, Pete sighted in on a nearby hill that had no name but was clearly marked, along with its elevation, on his surveyor’s map. This was one of the two points they were using to mark the bends in the route they were mapping. By matching the horizontal angle to this hilltop with the horizontal angle to another hilltop located behind him, the surveyor can map precisely where he is standing. This is a simple process known as triangulation. By measuring the vertical angle to either of the hilltops, the current elevation can be determined. These two measures were being recorded along the full length of the proposed route being mapped by the lead surveyor.

  Of course, the field of surveying had changed a great deal over the years with the invention of the GPS and the laser but Pete believed in doing things the old-fashioned way using the tried and true equipment of the past. No inability to communicate with a satellite or computer downtime was going to hinder him in his efforts.

  Pete eventually turned the theodolite in the opposite direction to measure the angles to the next hilltop. In reality, he would use a third hilltop to verify his measurements before making a permanent record.

  Mark eventually slipped out of his pack to lie down in the pine needles. This was the worst summer job ever. The entire time that Pete spent updating his survey tables and charts was spent by Mark trying to sleep but having to swat flies away from his face. Tired of being treated like nothing more than a pack animal, he chanced incurring Pete’s wrath by asking the same question he asked nearly every day around this time.

  “How much further are we planning on going today?”

  Pete looked away from his eyepiece to consider his partner. He was going to chew him out at first but decided to take it easy on the rookie this time.

  “Well now, seeing as how you’d rather be traveling on a trail then cross-country, I thought we’d go as far as a dirt road up ahead which should take us back to civilization. How does that sound to you?”

  “That sounds good to me. How far?”

  “Can you make it another five miles?”

  “I can if it means getting back to my warm bed at home.”

  “Great, just let me finish these readings and we’ll be on our way.”

  Pete set his eye back to his instrument, made several adjustments, and then scribbled some more notes in his logbook. He was about to stop and break down the delicate apparatus when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. He pointed the scope into the valley below the hill he’d been measuring against and the sight became crystal clear.

  “What is it?” Mark asked.

  “It appears to be a town, but it’s not on my survey map. Let me check the detailed reports.”

  Pete walked over to his pack and had to dig deep into it to come up with a thick booklet that had become buried beneath some clothes. Consulting their current location in the index, he eventually discovered the identity of the town.

  “It’s a place named McIntyre’s Gulch,” Pete explained.

  “Doesn’t look like much,” Mark commented, shading his eyes in a vain attempt to see into the distance.

  “Kid, what you don’t realize is that you’re looking at the next big oil boomtown. Come on, let’s see if we can make it there by lunch.”

  “You mean to eat real food?” Mark replied enthusiastically.

  Pete wasn’t surprised at the excitement behind the kid’s words. He’d been listening to Mark’s stomach grumble for the last two weeks, the entire duration of their survey. Instead of responding verbally to his partner he merely smiled and shook his head as he continued to break down the surveying equipment.

  Before long they were packed and once more trudging through the woods making a beeline for McIntyre’s Gulch to bring its residents the good news.

  Chapter 1

  I was scraping at the encrustation of moss on the roof. It was pretty but damaged the shingles. And, hard as it was to believe, winter was coming. Thanksgiving was only five weeks away and already there was beginning to be a certain crispness to the morning air as the winds gradually shifted to the north.

  Neither Thanksgiving nor the weather was on my mind that morning though. I had been consulting my calendar, a freebie that the Wings had gotten as a promotional gift from some air safety organization, and according to it—and my own inner hunches—I was a week late.

  A week, that isn’t so much. In geologic time, it’s nothing at all. But when it came to taxes and childbirth, a week could be significant.

  Usually I am a wait-and-see kind of person, and I keep things to myself. Half the plan was working. I wasn’t saying anything to Chuck until I knew for sure what we were dealing with. Chuck was under horrible pressure, having just been assigned a trainee for outback survival training. No one in town was thrilled with having to welcome an outsider into our midst, but we were ready to do our part. That is to say be as pleasant and boring—and innocent—as it was possible to be. After all, into every life some rain must fall.

  But that morning brought a deluge of concerns.

  My largest worry, until about nine that morning, was figuring out how to arrange a trip to Seven Forks to buy a pregnancy test. The Braids didn’t carry anything like that at
the store, and I didn’t want everyone knowing what I feared until it was an actual fact that had to be dealt with. That is why I also couldn’t go to the Bones and let him try the old-fashioned way that meant killing a rabbit. People killed rabbits all the time—and ate them. But I was utterly repelled at the idea of someone eating a rabbit after it had given its life for my curiosity.

  At 9:04, according to my watch, which wasn’t all that accurate, I caught the first glimpse of the flood waters that were coming into McIntyre’s Gulch.

  Strangers. One of them was injured.

  “Ricky,” I called down to the boy who was watching his puppy, Sisu, and Max tumbling around the yard. The Flowers’ stepson had been sneaking off into the woods again when I had called him over to keep Max company. This time of year, the woods near town were mostly safe. Mostly. But Ricky wasn’t old enough or savvy enough to deal with a bear. As if anyone ever is, but carrying a gun helps and he was still too young for that.

  “Yeah?” He looked up. He was still unhappy with me for stopping him and Sisu from having his adventure.

  “I need you to do something important, okay?”

  “Okay.” He liked doing important things.

  “Pop over to the pub and tell Big John that we have strangers coming into town and that we need the Bones because one of them is hurt.”

  “Strangers?” Ricky scrambled to his feet. He had been in the Gulch long enough to know that this was cause for concern.

  “Yes, two of them.”

  “I’ll go fast,” Ricky promised and took off like a shot.

  Since I was on the roof and my ladder was old and held together with rusting wire, I was slower in my dismount but wasted no time in getting out into the street. I was debating whether to take the time to tap on the Bones’ door when it opened and Doc stepped out with his medical bag.

  “I hear I have customers.”

  Thankfully he sounded sober. With the Bones one never knew.

  “Just one. At least, I hope just one. There are two of them coming.”

  Big John and Ricky trotted up behind us. Big John had forgotten to take off his work belt. Ricky was with him.

  “Ricky, would you keep an eye on Max for me? A lot of strangers are afraid of him, you know.” I tucked back a stray hair. I had braided it to keep it out of harm’s way while I worked, but nature always finds a way to escape containment.

  “Sure, Butterstoch.” He still hadn’t mastered my name and I didn’t correct him since I kind of liked the way he said it.

  Ricky patted Max. People are afraid of my dog because Max is a wolf. Ricky was very proud of the fact that he wasn’t afraid.

  “Okay, let’s get this act on the road.”

  “I never know if we are being too welcoming or too mean,” Big John muttered.

  “I know,” I answered Big John. “But one of them is hurt. We may be a little unfriendly but we aren’t heartless. By the way, we will probably have to speak some English or French with them, but it would probably be best if we did most of our talking in Gaelic.” I glanced at Ricky. His Gaelic was peculiar, but it was coming along since we spoke it to him all the time.

  Doc snorted but didn’t argue.

  “Hello,” Big John called when we were near enough. “Ciamar a tha sibh?”

  “Hi,” the injured one called back with relief. The older man was frowning, possibly trying to make out what Big John had said. He had chubby chipmunk cheeks that should have made him look friendly. They didn’t.

  We were close enough by then to see that the injured one was just a boy, possibly still in his teens. He also had a makeshift splint around his ankle.

  “You looked like you could use some help,” I said. “I’m Butterscotch Jones—Goodhead,” I added, recalling my married state. “This is the Bones—our doctor. And the other is Big John, our mayor. And this is Ricky.”

  “I’m Pete Mitchell,” the older man said. “This is Mark Stripe.”

  “Have a seat, young man,” the Bones said. “Let’s have a look at that ankle.”

  The boy sat gratefully on a nearby stone. Doc took only the smallest of looks at the purple flesh and then murmured in Gaelic, “It’s a sprain, not a break, but it’s bad.”

  “Big John—and Wendell, since you are here—we need to make a chair and get this young man to my office.”

  “Sure,” Wendell said and he and Big John linked arms to make a seat. “Wendell Thunder,” he added, smiling at the two men.

  By then Sisu, Max, and Ricky had joined the circle. Pete looked wary, but only for a moment. I guess he figured that if Max were hungry, he would have eaten Ricky first.

  “Give me your backpack, Mark,” I said.

  He hesitated, standing on one foot.

  “This is no time to be a gentleman. I can manage it.”

  But it was a near thing. They must have brought all the comforts of home with them including a frying pan and firewood.

  We were all struggling with our loads and didn’t try and talk until we were back in town and on the flat.

  Mark, though young and skinny, was not exactly lightweight either, and Big John and Wendell were glad to set him down in Doc’s examining room and turn him over to Linda Skywater.

  “Why are they here, Butterstotch?” Ricky asked in his own version of Gaelic. Then he added in English, “They don’t have red hair.”

  “Remember that we don’t make fun of people for not having red hair,” I reminded him.

  “’Scuse me, ma’am,” Mark gasped as Linda removed his boot. The ankle was very swollen. “What language are you speaking?”

  “It’s Gaelic.”

  I could see that he wanted to ask about the red hair. Wendell’s hair was black as was Linda’s, and the doc’s was silver. Only Big John, Ricky, and I had red hair.

  “So what are you guys doing out here? We sure were surprised to see you. We don’t get many visitors—especially not when the bears are so bad.” I figured it was never too soon to start playing that theme.

  “Bears?” Pete began to frown. “No one said anything about bears in the area.”

  “Lord, yes. No deaths so far this summer, but it’s bound to happen eventually. I don’t think we ever had a year without a bear attack. Big John?”

  “Well, I think in ’52 we went for a whole summer without an attack. But they killed three in the fall.”

  We all shook our heads over the tragic and dangerous situation.

  “Well, I have a pistol in my pack.”

  “No offense,” Wendell said. “But even a high-powered handgun won’t stop a bear in time. You shouldn’t be out without a shotgun.”

  “But don’t worry about that now,” I said, content that we had caused sufficient fear to keep anyone from wandering off, assuming Mark would be in any shape to wander. “We will get you fixed right up. A little rest and that ankle will feel ever so much better. And I bet you could use something to eat. Camping out can be fun, but it’s hard to get a decent meal.”

  “I’d love something to eat,” the boy confessed, happy to talk of something else while the Bones bound him up. His lips were white and I was moved to pity. I’ve had sprains before and they can hurt more than a break.

  “Ricky,” I said, turning to the boy who wasn’t looking real happy about Doc’s handiwork either. Especially when he got out a hypodermic. “Would you go to the inn and tell Judy we need a room fixed up and something nice for dinner?”

  He processed this. I had spoken slowly and used easy words so he would understand.

  “Okay,” he said, breaking into a grin. “Mounties are supposed to help people.”

  Ricky had developed a bit of hero worship for Chuck and currently wanted to be the first Mountie astronaut.

  “Yes, they do. Now be quick like a bunny.”

  “A Mountie?” Pete asked as Ricky charged out the door. He was slumped in one of Doc’s oaken chairs. His dusty face lent to his general air of exhaustion.

  “My husband is a Mountie,” I said.r />
  “That’s nice, a kid wanting to follow in his father’s footsteps.”

  “Yes. But he isn’t my son. He’s … well, a cousin, I guess. Relationships get a little complicated here.” I stopped there and got back on to the subject that mattered. “So, was this just a pleasure trip?”

  “Actually, no. We are here on a job.”

  “Really?” I said encouragingly, but inside began to feel dread. I hoped that he didn’t notice everyone else stiffening.

  “It’s actually pretty exciting—at least potentially.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re surveyors. Well, I am. Mark is my assistant.”

  “—and beast of burden,” the boy corrected. Doc’s shot was working and the boy was beginning to look sleepy.

  “You folks are very fortunate,” Pete said enthusiastically, unable to hold back his good news any longer. “This town is about to become famous. We’re building a pipeline right through here!”

  Silence.

  “Maybe we should get Mark to the Moose,” I suggested faintly when everyone else froze with horror and forgot how to speak in either English or Gaelic.

  “And call a meeting for tonight,” Big John added grimly. “A pipeline! Dear God! I thought they had their hands full with Keystone.”

  * * *

  Inspector Charles Goodhead of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police stood on the tarmac of James Armstrong Richardson International Airport in Winnipeg waiting for the arrival of a new recruit into the Mounties who was to be trained in outback patrol. Since Chuck had taken on the job of patrolling the outback he’d been labeled as the expert in policing the rougher territories of Manitoba. Along with the new job came the new responsibility of training other Mounties in the unique requirements associated with working in the wild. The rookie that Chuck was waiting for had been on the force only three months. His name was Thomas Merryweather and he was some kind of biologist. Chuck had arrived early to the airport because he wanted to make sure the Wings would be ready for their flight. While he waited for the recruit to show he exchanged idle banter with the Wings who continued tinkering with one of the engines.