7 Wild East Read online

  As I had expected, the room burst into dismayed exclamations. But they were Gaelic exclamations, so people were listening to my warnings. At no point did anyone say anything about starting petitions or writing letters or appealing to politicians’ better natures. To governments, people were never as important as progress. Oh, they paid lip service to the idea, but at the end of the day, unless the people meant enough votes to throw them out of office, then progress—aka money—always won.

  “Oy! Oy!” Samuel Levine-Jones shouted in his annoying voice that pierced the ears like railroad spikes and the voices stopped the bickering and gossip.

  “But why in tarnation would they want to bring a pipeline here?” The question came from a miraculously sober Whisky Jack. His eyes were bloodshot and his buffalo plaid shirt less than clean, but he was completely sane with his thinning hair combed and his face washed.

  “I don’t know. He talked a lot but the jargon didn’t mean anything to me. He said it was like Keystone,” I said, trying to recall the surveyor’s incomprehensible chatter. I looked to Big John and then to the Bones, but they both shook their heads. “I guess it’s the easiest route.”

  “Maybe the easiest to walk—but not the best for a pipeline.” Whisky Jack sounded contemptuous. This newfound certainty of manner was so startling that I and the others could only stare. “Look, we are surrounded by igneous intrusions and peridotite.” At my blank look he added, “That’s a rock that pushes up from underground. It’s very hard. It would require a lot of blasting to create a grade that’s suitable for transporting oil. The Ruby Valley would be a much better route.”

  A memory stirred in the back of my brain. Hadn’t Whisky Jack once been a surveyor? Back before he had lost his wife and crawled into a bottle?

  “Okay.” An idea was beginning to form. It was wild and desperate, but these were desperate times. “First off, we have to delay the survey team. One of them is hurt and I think we can reasonably keep him in bed for a few days. The other one is going to take some convincing. It might be best if his survey equipment disappeared. And I think we need some bear tracks around town. Everyone needs to carry a gun and look frightened.”

  I looked over at Horace and Sasha who were obscured by a cloud of Anatoli’s smoke. Those two had the most criminal leanings and were the most inventive.

  “Big John, do we still have those plaster casts we took when the woman was murdered by the bear?”

  “Aye. I know where they are. I’ll get right to it.” He was beginning to smile.

  “That should be enough for tonight, but we need to have backup strategies to keep them in town for a while, so start thinking of ways to delay them—and don’t suggest feeding them to the bears,” I said in English, looking sternly at Sasha whose mouth had opened. “At least, we would only do that as a last, last resort. Remember, no one speaks much English here. We have no phones and the radio isn’t working. We are stuck in town until the bears leave or someone from Seven Forks comes to visit—ah, Anatoli….”

  “I am not even here,” he said reassuringly.

  We looked up as an airplane flew low overhead. The Wings had returned, bringing my husband and the new recruit along with some supplies. We heard it bank and knew he was lining up for a landing on Main Street. I didn’t ask if anyone had left a truck outside. Everybody knew the Wings was coming in and that the street needed to be clear.

  “We’ll have to ground the Wings,” Big John said. “Or the surveyor will ask to be flown out.”

  “Get word to him then—and I’ll fill Chuck in on what has happened. The rest of you need to hide any of your vehicles and if the surveyor sees them you have to tell him they aren’t working. In fact, lose the distributor caps and a couple of wires, okay? Let’s make sure they don’t run.” The engine sound got louder. “We need to wrap this up.”

  “Delaying these guys is fine, but we have to do something more permanent.” This was from Wendell.

  “The bears—” Sasha began.

  “No. They’ll just send more surveyors and maybe game wardens.” I wanted to squash this idea once and for all. “And we also have the new Mountie coming in. We have to be discreet.”

  “What then?” the Braids asked. She sounded a little desperate. I didn’t know what secrets she had—what many of my neighbors had—but I knew we all wanted to keep them buried in our little town.

  I turned to Whisky Jack.

  “Someone has got to survey a better route—and back it up with facts and figures and maps and all that stuff. We need to hand the government a logical alternative to bringing the pipe through here. And we need it fast.” I waited a beat for Whisky Jack to take my meaning.

  “Me? Do a survey?” he asked blankly, his earlier confidence gone.

  “Yes. We don’t have anyone else who is qualified. Do we?” I asked, belatedly realizing that many of my neighbors had past lives I didn’t know about and there could be any number of surveyors among them. No one spoke up though, so I turned back to Jack. “It’s all on you, Jack. You can have anyone you want to help you and name your fee—but you’ve got to do it.”

  “Free whisky for the rest of the year,” Big John offered, cutting to the chase and making his best offer.

  “The good stuff,” Whisky Jack said, suddenly more amenable.

  “Fine—but only when the job is done. Not one ounce of it do you get before!”

  “Okay then. And I want Horace, Sasha, and Anatoli to come with me.” The three men looked startled. “If I run into bears or Bigfoots I want someone who can defend us.”

  “You want a marksman?” Horace asked.

  “Hells bells! I don’t want to mark them, I want to blow them up. Anyway, we might need someone familiar with munitions for taking samples.”

  “I would be honored,” Anatoli said, rising to the occasion.

  “Me too,” said Horace. Then he spoiled the solemn moment by adding, “Oh boy!”

  “We’re set then.” Whisky Jack spat into his palm and offered it to Big John. It took our mayor a moment to bow to the inevitable and spit into his own hand and shake on the deal. After, he headed straight for the kitchen pump to wash his hands.

  The rest of us went out into the street to meet the new Mountie. I hoped people wouldn’t be too rude, but xenophobic sentiments were running high and you know what they say: Hope for the best but expect the worst. That went double for the Gulch.

  I also hoped that Chuck wouldn’t mind his father going into the wild on the survey mission. Probably he wouldn’t have time to get upset. This was the worst possible time to have another Mountie in the Gulch.

  * * *

  Chuck felt the tips of his fingers digging into the armrests of his seat as the Wings soared low over the tall pines on his final approach to the main street of McIntyre’s Gulch. No matter how many times he’d experienced it he still couldn’t get used to how close to the ground the Wings liked to fly. He felt a scream building in his throat before the landing gear cleared the last treetop and settled onto the recently paved street. The touchdown was gentle as usual and allowed the Mountie to expel a long pent-up breath of anxiety.

  During the flight the Wings had kept his antics to a minimum, but then from the sounds and smells coming from the back of the plane, it was obvious that it didn’t take much to affect the recruit’s gentle stomach. Thomas didn’t complain once, possibly because he couldn’t catch his breath long enough during their flight to say a word, but he obviously wasn’t handling the situation well. As usual, Chuck couldn’t wait to throw the passenger door open and fall out of the plane onto unsteady legs.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” Chuck commented under his breath when the Wings finally joined him.

  “What?”

  “You know.”

  “Oh, that. He deserved it. He’s an officious prig. And I only did it the once.”

  Chuck glared daggers at the Wings until the pilot turned away in amusement and walked with purpose toward the Lonesome Moose. Chuck tur
ned back to the plane to assist Thomas in disembarking. The man was shaky and a mess. He’d apparently caught the majority of his gorge in some form of container but still a fair amount of it ended up on his uniform. Extracting a t-shirt from his own luggage, Chuck began to clean Thomas up the best he could while the recruit recovered his land legs.

  “Officer Goodhead, I feel the need to apologize for my deplorable actions during the flight,” Thomas began.

  Chuck held his hand up to interrupt the needless apology and kept cleaning. He turned when he felt he could no longer ignore the crowd of townspeople who had gathered to welcome the arrival of the Wings’ plane. The first two people he noticed were the Braids and Little Davey McIntyre, the town grocers.

  “Amy, Davey, I’d like to introduce you to Officer Thomas Merryweather of the RCMP. He’ll be staying with us for the next week to complete his outback training.”

  “Hello, Amy, Davey,” Thomas said courteously. He didn’t argue about the use of first names. Perhaps he could learn after all.

  “Hi, Tom. I hear you’re an officious prig,” Davey replied. Then he added something in Gaelic that Chuck was pretty sure was even more insulting.

  The grocers both laughed and walked past the Mounties to the plane to see about their supplies.

  “Good Lord, who made this horrible mess in here?” the Braids called back in Gaelic when she’d reached the plane.

  “Way to go, numb nuts,” Whisky Jack chortled as he strolled past the recruit to help lug supplies from the plane, for which he’d be paid his daily snootful.

  The others that were nearby sneered, some went so far as to spit on the ground, and then they walked away.

  “Welcome to the Gulch,” Chuck told Thomas. “It’s the town where strangers aren’t sacred.”

  By the expression on his face, there was no doubt that Thomas had been crushed by his first encounter with the citizenry of McIntyre’s Gulch. He straightened his hat and adjusted his uniform self-consciously. Chuck didn’t know what to say except that some lessons have to be learned the hard way, though even for the Gulch this was excessive. Something was going on.

  “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” Chuck said. “Amy, we’ll be back for our luggage. I’m taking the lad to his room in the Lonesome Moose to get him cleaned up.”

  “Check with the Flowers. They have guests at the Moose,” she answered without explaining and the Mountie felt the first moments of unease.

  It appeared from the number of people in the street that some sort of meeting had just broken up at the community hall. The people who passed eyed the new Mountie suspiciously. Thomas tipped his hat and nodded to each individual they passed, saying something cordial under his breath. A few answered in Gaelic. Madge Brightwater almost smiled.

  “I’ve never seen the likes of it,” Thomas commented to Chuck.

  “What’s that,” Chuck replied.

  “The red hair.”

  Chuck had to look at the crowded street for a moment before he saw it. Nearly everyone in the street had red hair. He’d grown so used to the sight that he hardly noticed. Now he saw it as Thomas was seeing it for the first time. It was an extraordinary sight.

  They had nearly made it to the front door of the Lonesome Moose when someone grabbed Chuck by the coat sleeve. He turned to see the concerned face of his newlywed wife looking up at him.

  “We need to talk,” said Butterscotch, who never spoke Gaelic to him. She then turned her eyes to Thomas and managed a warm but wan smile. “Welcome to the Gulch.”

  Good Lord, Chuck thought. Who’s died this time?

  Chapter 3

  Thomas had changed into his version of casual clothing, which involved a shirt and trousers with ironed creases. There were few people in the pub that evening since everyone knew we needed to let the surveyors—and our new Mountie—get a good night’s sleep.

  The Flowers was busy with Ricky, so I made a sleepy-time herbal tea. It was strong enough to crawl out of the cup and down the throat all on its own. After a cup or two, Thomas began to regain his color. And with it his stiffness, officiousness, and wounded dignity. I might have disliked him but for those melancholy eyes. I was betting he didn’t have a lot of friends.

  Chuck was doing his best to put him at ease and I decided that I would help—after all, we needed him peacefully asleep so we could talk. Wounded dignity first, I decided, and told him that no one who flew with the Wings when he was in a bad mood maintained his equanimity, and anyway the turbulence over the mountain could fell any man.

  I also related the story of Chuck’s reception in the Gulch, but this just seemed to horrify Thomas. Fortunately, he began to yawn and didn’t resist when I suggested he retire for the night.

  After he had gone upstairs, I filled Chuck in on the pipeline and what we planned to do about it.

  “But Whisky Jack?” he said weakly.

  “I know, but he was dead sober. And he used to be a surveyor. He can do this.” I added, “He has to do this.”

  Chuck took a deep breath.

  “Okay. What can I do?” Then he yawned and scrubbed his face. He looked very tired.

  “Mostly you can help by keeping young Thomas occupied. Maybe Wendell can take him out and teach him to read bear signs and track elk and such.” I chuckled. “Though there will be plenty of bear tracks here in town come morning. Big John and Sasha are seeing to it now.”

  Chuck managed a tired smile.

  “That actually isn’t a bad idea about having Wendell take us out…. Too bad Anatoli won’t be here. He could teach him about tracking humans.”

  “I’m glad you aren’t upset about your father going on the survey too.”

  “I think it’s for the best. I love the old man, but he isn’t discreet. And he’ll be happy if he gets to blow something up.”

  I nodded.

  “Speaking of blowing things up, should I risk using the kitchen to make you some dinner?”

  “No, I ate before we left. Long before, what with having to fly—” Chuck broke off. “Actually, I don’t know how long you can keep Wings grounded. He’s got to take some kind of a flying test to renew his license and I can tell that he’s worried.”

  “Damn. I had forgotten about that. Well, we just have to do what we can do and trust God to be merciful with the extras this week.”

  Chuck yawned again.

  “I’m beat. I won’t be of any use to anyone if I don’t get some sleep,” Chuck said. He had gotten used to the Gulch hours where we tended to rise and set with the sun. “Are you ready to turn in?”

  “Not quite yet. I have to supervise a couple of things.”

  “Like? Or do I not want to know?”

  “We need survey equipment. I think we are going to have to borrow some.”

  Chuck shook his head.

  “We’d have to hide it from the surveyors regardless. May as well put it to use,” I argued.

  “Well, don’t be too long at your felonious pursuits.” Chuck stood and then leaned down to kiss me. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too,” I said, and found that that was true, in spite of my being preoccupied with other things. Like calendars and pipelines. “Give Max a pat and tell him I’ll be back soon.”

  After Chuck was gone, I checked that the fire was banked down and then went out to the shed where Sasha has a kind of workshop. My body was tired, but I was too keyed up to sleep.

  As I expected, Anatoli and Sasha were there. Horace had gone off with Big John to surround the inn with bear tracks made with the plaster casts he had kept after the genuine bear attack last winter.

  The boys were happy to see me and I was conscripted to the work detail, and Sasha set me to cleaning and loading guns while he and Anatoli packed explosives. Sasha and Anatoli had custom-made rifles that were pieces of deadly art. I did the job carefully and then checked the ammunition they wanted me to load. Anatoli rolled his own. I could tell by the delicate crimp marks. Somehow, this figured. He is a very hands-on
kind of man.

  Under instruction, I filled the magazines with mixed loads of ammunition, three soft-nosed rounds and then two jacketed ones. Soft-nosed bullets don’t so much punch holes in things as they disintegrate whatever is in front of them. The jacketed rounds would go through anything, even a tree, and where hearts and brains are concerned, even small holes are usually fatal. Usually. With bears, it can take them a while to figure out they’re dead. With this mix, I knew that Anatoli wasn’t screwing around. This would take care of anything from an angry bear to a jeep.

  I was pretty sure that the guns and some of the ammunition were illegal. We would have to make sure that Mountie Thomas Merryweather didn’t get a look at them.

  “What time do you leave?” I asked.

  * * *

  Thomas was very tired and welcomed the chance to sleep, but the moon shining in between the curtains was impossibly bright and he finally got up to pull the drapes together. While there at the small window, he couldn’t help but notice that there were people abroad in the dark. They didn’t use torches, maybe because the moon was bright enough to guide them, but the lack of manmade illumination somehow suggested that they were doing something furtive and didn’t want to draw attention to themselves.

  One was the mayor—there was no mistaking him because of his size—and the other was an elderly man with silver hair. Thomas couldn’t tell what they were doing but every couple of feet they would lean over and do something to the ground.

  The other man who stepped off the inn’s porch and stopped to speak to them looked like something out of a prospecting museum. He was dressed in tattered clothes and old boots, and carried a heavy backpack and a pickax in one hand and a second pack in the other. This pack he handed to the silver-haired man who shrugged into it with some help from the mayor.

  They talked for a moment more and then the two men with packs turned and walked up the street. The mayor cradled what looked like two large rocks as he watched them leave and then he walked slowly back toward the inn. The moon was bright enough to show off his face and he looked preoccupied. Maybe even worried.