7 Wild East Page 8

  Together they sat on top of the rock saying nothing, simply enjoying being alone in the woods and away from all the hubbub of town. Eventually, the Mountie broke the silence.

  “So, do you miss Los Angeles and your father?”

  “At first I did, but the Flowers and everyone else are really nice, and I prefer living out in the woods to living in a city. I do still miss my dad though.”

  “Yeah, I sometimes miss my father too.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He passed away two years ago. I think he would have been proud to see me join the RCMP, if he’d lived long enough.”

  “That’s tough,” Ricky acknowledged.

  “Come on,” Thomas prompted. “What do you say we take a look at some of the wildlife living on this rock?”

  “Okay. First there’s these kind of lizards that live in the cracks,” Ricky explained as he led them across the rock to a particularly deep crevice.

  Reaching his hand into the crack, Ricky retrieved it to show that he was holding a pale-colored reptile. Thomas pulled his wildlife guide from his pocket and began to search. When he came up with nothing he started to get excited.

  “You know, you might have found something here,” he declared.

  “What? It’s just a lizard.”

  “No, actually it’s a newt. And I can’t find it in my wildlife guide.”

  “Is that good?” Ricky asked.

  “Ricky, you may have just saved McIntire’s Gulch from a horrible fate. And who knows, you may even end up winning the Nobel Prize for science.”

  Ricky’s eyes lit up at the mention of a prize. No doubt he was fantasizing over a new bike or a toy truck. Thomas smiled at the boy and Ricky smiled back.

  “Let’s take pictures of these rare newts and bring them back to town. I think everyone will be quite interested in our find.”

  And relieved. If this species really was rare or undiscovered, and reported promptly to the Manitoba Conservation Data Centre, then it would halt the pipeline while a study was done—and probably forever—and then the town could quit hiding the surveyors’ equipment and let them go home.

  While Thomas used his cellphone to capture images of the tiny animals that were all over the rock, Ricky stood and watched proudly as he dreamed of someday becoming a lizard scientist.

  * * *

  It was their second full day out on the survey and Anatoli was pretty sure they would be done and back in the Gulch by the end of the day tomorrow. He had also recommenced his role as sight handler for Whisky Jack. The result of the two of them working in tandem was nothing short of astonishing. Anatoli continued to act as guide and work the theodolite. Whisky Jack maintained the records and pointed in the direction he wanted to go. Sasha and Horace had even been put to work gathering and cataloging rock samples from each of their survey sites. As a team they marched up the Ruby Valley until they were only a handful of kilometers away from meeting up with the original pipeline path.

  It was beginning to get dark when Whisky Jack called them to a halt to set up camp. Everyone was exhausted and more than ready to stop for the day. Tomorrow morning they would finish the survey and head home. The surveyors were happy to only have to spend one more day camping.

  As Anatoli smoothed out his bedroll, he heard Whisky Jack in the background radioing in his report. He smiled when he heard the applause from the other end of the line in response to Jack announcing they’d be returning the following day.

  For dinner, Horace produced two cans of tamales from his pack. After they were heated over the fire everyone enjoyed gorging on them. While they ate, the men joked about the work and queried Jack about the report he’d been working on every night by flashlight. To hear Jack talk of it, the report was going to be a knockout, but Anatoli suspected it would be yet another dry science report possibly referenced by many but read by few.

  That night Anatoli and Jack lay side by side next to the fire. Anatoli couldn’t help but stare across at the old man and wonder how he’d gotten into such a sorry state. As he considered the vagaries of fate, the old man’s eyes opened to return his stare.

  “What is it?” Jack whispered. “Did you hear something?”

  “No,” Anatoli whispered back. “I was just thinking.”

  “What?”

  “It is such a waste.”

  “What?”

  “Your talent,” Anatoli concluded.

  “Oh bosh!” Jack replied and then snarled something profane under his breath. “Go back to sleep, Ruskie. Tomorrow will be a long hard day.”

  Anatoli fell asleep almost immediately and the following day was, just as predicted, exceedingly hard and exceptionally long.

  * * *

  The radio news was received with happiness. The survey was complete and no one was hurt. Our people might make it home as early as tomorrow afternoon. People finished their whisky or coffee and then rinsed out their cups and headed for home.

  I decided to drop around by the inn where Chuck was keeping Thomas and Pete entertained with a game of cards and an apple pie. And possibly some whisky for Pete.

  “We dodged a bullet there,” Big John said.

  “Yes. Now all we have to do is convince Pete to use Jack’s survey.”

  “Aye, that’s all,” Big John said, refusing to be gloomy.

  Chapter 7

  Thomas was torn. It was not legal or ethical to snoop in his host’s home. But he was in an inn, a public place, and in possibly public spaces since nothing was posted as private or off-limits, so what was the harm in a casual stroll around the building?

  He stopped first in Big John’s office. If anyone asked what he was doing he would say he was looking for Ricky. Which he was, just hoping he didn’t find him too quickly. The room was unoccupied, the mayor being at the construction site. Thomas didn’t open any drawers or closets, but he permitted himself to scan the surface of the desk and the one small bookcase. There was no phone, no radio, no computer, only an old-fashioned ledger with pencil entries. In Gaelic.

  Outside the pub, he strolled to the large shed at the back of the property. The door wasn’t locked—nothing in the town seemed to be locked. Butterscotch had explained that in an emergency, being able to reach shelter, firearms, tools, or a medical kit was crucial. That made sense. It also backed up her claim that they had no crime and tended to treat each other’s possessions as public property.

  First he peered in the windows, but they were dusty and he couldn’t make out anything except a workbench and some wire shelves with boxes on them. Thomas fought a brief battle with himself. And then he opened the door and stepped inside the small outbuilding that was set back from the rest of the sheds. The air was still and warm and smelled of gunpowder.

  He had expected tools, perhaps a snowmobile or motorcycle. What he found were explosives, though many appeared to be homemade fireworks.

  No phone, no radio.

  Baffled, he backed out and closed the door. He had been certain that there would be a phone or radio somewhere.

  Remembering his excuse for wandering around, he called softly, “Ricky.”

  “What?” the small voice said directly behind him.

  Unable to help himself, Thomas jumped an inch into the air.

  “There you are. I was wondering if you wanted to take another walk today, or if we should go to the construction site first and see if they need help.”

  Thomas was disappointed both in his own ineptness with old-fashioned tools and in the general lack of enthusiasm about the newt he and Ricky had discovered, but he realized that they were rather distracted by the building project. Which might have been concocted—or at least moved forward—to keep the surveyor busy.

  Well, just as soon as he could get cell coverage he would send his photos to the Species at Risk Registry. Hopefully that would stall the pipeline and no one would get arrested for kidnapping a government surveyor.

  Ricky considered his suggestion seriously.

  “Maybe we should j
ust stop by long enough to tell them where we are and to get Max and Sisu. Have you been up to the lake yet? Maybe we can discover a new kind of fish. And we can eat any that aren’t new. I know where the fishing rods are.” He added, “You know, Butterscotch is teaching me to catch fish with my hands. She’s better than anyone at fishing without a rod.”

  “I’ve never seen that.”

  Thomas thought that Ricky was very perceptive and thoughtful, to know that his presence was a burden to the others while they were engaged in the dangerous task of raising the log walls, and choosing to keep away while they worked. He didn’t know that while Ricky was being thoughtful, it was actually to keep clumsy Thomas safe and entertained while his friends were engaged in the dangerous task of raising the log walls that might crush the Mountie.

  * * *

  Pete was less scrupulous than Thomas, but he had no opportunity to snoop for his equipment or a phone. He tried to suggest to Mark that he might like to have a look around for a phone or radio while he began exercising that ankle, but the slacker was happy reading books and having the crazy woman they called the Flowers bring him cookies and lemonade.

  And anyway, he was needed at the construction site. His knowledge was actually useful there and he was fascinated by the idea of a log building. After all, he was going to retire one day and his dream had always been to have a small cabin near a lake where he could go fishing. Building your own with materials off your property sure seemed the way to go since it would cut down greatly on the expense.

  * * *

  The Wings pulled me aside soon after we started fitting logs into place. There were enough men that he wasn’t needed for raising the house. I knew even before he spoke that he was leaving.

  “Listen, now that the guys are on their way back to the Gulch, I’ve got to go. I have this test to take and I’m out of time.”

  “I know. Listen, thanks for staying as long as you have.” I gave him a quick hug. It was very quick because the Wings embarrasses easily when it comes to the mushy stuff. “You knock ’em dead on that test, eh.”

  “Will do.”

  It was time for me to help the Flowers fix lunch, but watching the cabin take shape was fascinating. It went so quickly. All the advance fittings had paid off. In a couple of places the men laid out strips of an old horsehair blanket which served as a kind of gasket. But mostly the logs fit together like they had been extruded in some factory. Little chinking would be needed.

  I turned at the sound of Max and Sisu yowling hello; Thomas and Ricky were walking down the road, each carrying a fish. It was hard to see who was prouder of their catch.

  And then the Wings flew overhead. He was low and brazen enough to even waggle his wings as he buzzed us.

  Everyone except Pete waved back. The surveyor said something that probably would have made his mother wash his mouth out with soap.

  “I guess the plane is fixed,” I said. “That’s good. Now he can bring us the parts for the radio.”

  Pete stopped swearing and began to look relieved. He climbed down off the wall and headed for the pub.

  Thomas—doubting Thomas—just looked thoughtful as he watched the plane fly away.

  “Time to get lunch. You boys want to have fish for lunch?” I asked Ricky and Thomas.

  “I’m not sure,” Ricky said. “What if I’m eating an endangered species?”

  I looked from Ricky to Thomas who smiled ruefully.

  “I don’t think it’s endangered. It’s a bluegill.”

  “But maybe it’s a rare bluegill. We should check with the—what’s it called, Thomas?”

  “Species at Risk Registry. But it isn’t endangered.”

  I shook my head.

  “You know the rule. If you kill it, you eat it. The only exceptions are ants and spiders. And possums in the fall.”

  “And ticks and fleas,” Ricky added.

  “And centipedes and termites,” Thomas added, getting into the spirit of things.

  “Especially rare termites and centralpedes,” Ricky added, beginning to grin.

  “The rarer the better if it’s termites,” I agreed and then changed the subject slightly because this game of what not to eat could go on all day. “How about fish with biscuits and greens?”

  “Sounds good,” Thomas said promptly. “We even picked some watercress from the creek.”

  “Excellent,” I said, hoping the biologist knew the difference between watercress and less edible things.

  “Don’t worry. It is watercress,” he said.

  “You, young Thomas, see entirely too much,” I told him. “Come along now. We’ll make some lunch and then come back to watch the roof go on.”

  Chapter 8

  The roof was up! There had been a couple tricky moments getting everything in place, but once there it fit as nicely as a jigsaw puzzle. The Flowers was misty eyed and Sasha would be so surprised—and I thought pleased—to find the cabin mostly done. There was still finishing work to do, like completing the loft where Ricky’s bedroom would be and putting in the stove, but it would be ready by the time the bad weather came.

  The last thing the men did was to pound iron stakes into the ground which led back to the Lonesome Moose. Billy Jones had fired up the old forge and made them the day before. They were basically sticks with an eye on the top, not pretty but heavy and functional.

  Seeing Thomas and Pete’s curiosity I explained.

  “They’ll hold guide ropes in the winter. We have them all through town.”

  “Your snows are that bad?” Pete asked, again looking concerned and probably worrying about the pipeline. “Nothing in our reports suggested these kinds of conditions.”

  “Yes. It’s some localized weather event. A few times a year we get terrible blizzards, complete whiteouts. These ropes are our lifelines if we need the Doc or are just going cabin crazy and need company after being snowed in.”

  * * *

  The Wings was standing at attention dressed in his best clothes on the tarmac of James Armstrong Richardson International Airport in Winnipeg awaiting the flight official who was walking purposefully toward him from the terminal. The official wore a comb-over, thick black-framed glasses, and a pocket protector. No doubt that was a clip-on tie that he wore with his short sleeve dress shirt and polyester pants. The Wings nearly snickered but caught himself at the last moment. The little man continued to advance until he came to a halt directly in front of the Wings.

  “I’m Nathan Hawthorne, with Transport Canada Civil Aviation. I’ll assume that you are Mr. Danny Jones-McIntyre and you are here today to satisfy the test requirements of the TCCA required to renew your commercial pilot’s license. Is that correct?”

  The man sounded like he was reading from a document, but he wasn’t. What was worse was that he sounded like he was reading from a legal document. The Wings shuddered at the thought.

  “Well, I’ll have to take your word for it that you’re Nathan Hawthorne,” the Wings replied, trying to insert some humor into the situation, “but I can vouch for the rest as being true.”

  “Are you asking to see my identification?” Mr. Hawthorne snapped back.

  “No, of course not. I trust you,” the Wings stammered.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I will show you if you want me to.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Danny thought he’d struck the right balance between showing his fun-loving side and actually answering the man’s question. But apparently not. Mr. Hawthorne sized him up for a moment before he continued with more legalese.

  “Oddly enough, I referenced our computer records and could find little to no information regarding Mr. Danny Jones-McIntyre other than your commercial pilot’s license. I wonder if you might enlighten me as to which official documents you used to become licensed in the first place?”

  “Oh now, that’s a long story,” Danny replied, trying to laugh the question off.

  “I have all day,”
Mr. Hawthorne replied.

  “You know, my birth certificate and driver’s license. Things like that.”

  “And are you prepared to produce those records today in order to verify your identity?”

  “I don’t have them with me.”

  “Bring those records to my office as soon as possible to facilitate the reissuance of your pilot’s license.”

  Hawthorne opened his logbook to make a note.

  “You mean you’re not going to renew my license today?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “But how am I supposed to get back to McIntyre’s Gulch?”

  “Charter a flight. Surely you know someone in the business that will offer you a ride.”

  The Wings grumbled something under his breath.

  “What was that?” Hawthorne asked.

  “Nothing. I was just commenting on the efficiency of the TCCA in conducting these flight exams.”

  Hawthorne ignored the slight, changing his focus from the pilot to his plane.

  “Are you willing to certify that this airplane is airworthy and that you are prepared to fly it today with one passenger functioning as your flight examiner?”

  “I am,” the Wings replied forcefully. “The old girl has never been more ready.”

  To show just how ready his plane was, Danny slapped his hand down hard on the engine cowling. A loud clank came from inside the engine compartment. The access hatch popped open to deposit a wrench on the tarmac.

  “Ah, so that’s what happened to that thing,” the Wings said, scooping up the errant tool and slipping it into his pocket.

  “Mr. Jones-McIntyre.…” Hawthorne began.

  “You can call me the Wings,” Danny corrected.

  “What was that tool doing in the engine compartment of your plane?”

  “I believe that it was resting where my mechanic left it.”

  “I see,” Hawthorne replied, making another note in his log. “You should have a word with your mechanic. Let’s move on to your preflight check.”