7 Wild East

by Melanie Jackson

  Thomas had been skeptical, too, after last night’s moonlight performance, but Butterscotch’s story about the funeral for a hand had stuck with him. He was reserving judgment until he spoke privately with Inspector Goodhead about what he had seen and what course of action to pursue.

  There hadn’t been a chance so far. He had asked over breakfast about the surveyors and Chuck had explained about the proposed pipeline. Thomas was not a small town boy, but he wasn’t stupid. He could understand why someplace like the Gulch wouldn’t be thrilled with becoming an oil boomtown. They could have reason for delaying the surveyor that had nothing to do with the injured teenager needing time to heal. And it was a pretty large coincidence that there was no working phone and that the town’s only radio was broken. Though he had been briefed before leaving Winnipeg that the only way they could reach the Mountie was by radio because there was no cellphone reception in the area.

  So perhaps the situation wasn’t what it seemed like it could be. Eventually things would become clear. Frankly, he had trouble believing that an Inspector in the RCMP would have anything to do with such chicanery. Charles Goodhead had a reputation for being a very by-the-book kind of policeman, much to the dismay of his superiors. It was why Thomas had asked for him as a mentor when he had to take outback training.

  In the meantime, he hoped that the angry surveyor did nothing rash. The good and heavily armed citizens of McIntyre’s Gulch—and he used the term loosely since it remained to be seen how many were good—might be just as happy if he was killed by bears. After all, why should they risk their necks for him if he deliberately put his life in danger?

  * * *

  They had almost reached Wendell’s house when Chuck decided that he would have to ask what had the recruit so preoccupied.

  “What’s on your mind, Thomas?” Chuck asked reluctantly. “Are you concerned about survival training?”

  “I think that I should have made an arrest this morning. It’s what Pete Mitchell wanted. But, as you are my superior officer, I thought that I would run it by you before filing formal charges.”

  “Yes, of course. Why, and who were you proposing to arrest?”

  Thomas cleared his throat and began making a formal report.

  “Last night I was wakened by the full moon and saw something outside the inn. Care to guess what I saw?”

  “Rats?”

  “No, sir, these were humans, not rodents. I actually saw the mayor who was doing something with what looked like rocks and two other men. They were carrying backpacks that appeared to be filled with heavy equipment. This was odd, but I did not immediately suspect skullduggery and went back to bed without saying anything.”

  “Wise choice.”

  “However, this morning I find that Mr. Mitchell’s surveying equipment was apparently stolen in the night. Putting two and two together, it’s only natural to conclude that these men took the equipment.”

  “Isn’t stolen the wrong word?”

  “What other word could I use?”

  “Try borrowed. Admittedly without permission. But that is the way things are done here. Practically everything is considered community property to be used for the common weal.”

  Thomas nodded, thinking about what Butterscotch had said about the boy needing bed rest and the older surveyor pushing to go on into dangerous territory. He supposed this was one way to delay them.

  “If that is how you see it, sir, then I shall follow your advice. Are you suggesting that I don’t say anything to these men if I see them?”

  “If I were you, being new in town and all, I might hold on to my thoughts and observations until after the dust settles a couple days hence. Things usually have a way of working themselves out without official intervention.”

  The two men shared a knowing glance. From the look in his eye, Chuck knew the recruit had figured out the general outlines of what was going on and that he was learning another of those painful outback lessons that used to bother Chuck so much.

  He had to admire that the kid knew when to shut his mouth and move on with things. Chuck hadn’t caught on as fast. Young Thomas would probably go far in his chosen field.

  Thomas saluted, a gesture which Chuck reluctantly acknowledged, then turned toward Wendell’s cabin. Halfway to the door, Thomas thought of one more item to report.

  “By the way, someone short-sheeted my bed last night.”

  “Must have been young gremlins.” Or old gremlins, like his father who got more rash and juvenile every day. Even if the guilty party was Ricky, he had learned it from someone and Horace was Chuck’s first bet. “It was probably directed at the surveyor, but I’ll get the word out that your room is to be left alone.”

  Thomas nodded his head and left it at that.

  Wendell and two of his wolves stepped out to greet them as they started up the path and Chuck made introductions. Thomas did well with the wolves. He referred to them as dogs so the Mountie figured he didn’t know that they were three-quarters timber wolf. That seemed a little odd for a biologist, but maybe he had specialized in marine animals or something.

  The Mountie tried to focus on the day ahead as Wendell outlined a proposed training plan, but kept being prodded by the nagging feeling that more trouble was brewing and soon might begin to boil over. The town was juggling too many live grenades for this to not end in some form of disaster.

  “You okay, Mountie?” Wendell asked.

  “Sure, just got a twinge in my funny bone.”

  * * *

  Ricky stood before his bed in his small bedroom in the Lonesome Moose. His bedroom had been used as a utility closet before he’d taken possession and in fact still stored shelves of paper towels and other household consumables. Ricky was excited because he’d stumbled upon a challenge, and it was a challenge worthy of a fledgling Mountie. Ricky’s dog, Sisu, was missing. Ricky had just returned to the inn after having searched all over town hoping to find her at Butterscotch’s or mooching food in the kitchen. He could think of only one explanation for her absence—his dog had wandered off into the woods. Ricky was well versed in the bear stories told around town and knew of the dangers of wandering alone in the woods. He therefore thought it imperative to go in search of his dog.

  Assembled on the bed were the contents of his pack. In reality, Ricky didn’t have a pack, so he was using an old pillowcase instead to hold his possessions. He figured he could bundle everything up in the sheeting and tie it to a stick like he’d read that travelers used to do. The items he felt important to place in his pack included lots of water (a whole plastic bottle), a muffin he’d saved from breakfast, and the power rock that Wendell Thunder had given him. Ricky wore an old beat-up heavy coat which was several sizes too big for him. Carrying his pack on a long stick the boy looked like a hobo who was experiencing exceptionally hard times.

  Ricky chose to head to the White Rock at Potter’s Ridge in search of Sisu. The rock was a favorite hiking destination when he was out with Butterscotch or Wendell. He chose this destination so that if he failed to find his dog he could at least eat his sandwich someplace with a nice view and maybe eat some berries which should be ripe. Besides, he knew how to make it to the White Rock and back without getting lost, though it would have been nice if Butterscotch was with him. Then no one would yell if he got caught in the woods. Not that he would get caught. The trip would take no more than two hours and everyone was busy with the hurt surveyor who had to stay in bed. No one would miss him.

  Ricky marveled in the nature that surrounded him as he walked. It wasn’t long ago that he walked the hot sidewalks of Los Angeles viewing a completely different scene from what he was experiencing now. Ricky had yet to lose the giddy wonder. Within fifteen minutes of starting his trek he was completely alone in utter silence with the exception of the birdsong and briefly, the chuckling of a stream. He paused once for a rest and wondered again whether he was doing the right thing. But he worried only for a brief time before remembering how proud Inspector Goodh
ead was going to be of him when he returned with his dog. He continued walking deeper into the woods musing over whether he’d be made an honorary Mountie. If he was, then Chuck could send that new Mountie away and he could be Chuck’s partner instead.

  Ricky left tracks on the dirt trail leading into the woods. Unbeknownst to the distracted youth, one of his tracks was planted right in the middle of a fresh bear track.

  Chapter 4

  Pete was not usually a hothead, but he knew when he was being stonewalled and that—and maybe the liquor—made him see red. Those town folk had to understand at least some English!

  Or maybe not. McIntyre’s Gulch was a weird, inbred kind of place. Look at all that red hair and that insane woman at the inn. That’s what came from marrying your first cousins for hundreds of years! They had seemed normal enough yesterday, taking care of Mark and offering them shelter, but then in the night something had happened and he woke up to find everyone replaced by aliens. It was like in that movie about pods from outer space.

  The news about the pipeline should have caught fire, but there hadn’t been a single spark of natural enthusiasm. Doors were closed and so were faces. Were they so backward that they didn’t know that there could be money in it for them?

  And he wasn’t sure now if he believed that there was a real Mountie in town—that upstart boy sure hadn’t acted like one. Wouldn’t a genuine officer of the law been over to take a statement about the theft of the survey equipment? Maybe they were all crazy. Imagine offering him whisky with breakfast? Not that he had said no. But if that was how they started every day it was no bloody wonder they hadn’t made it out of the dark ages.

  And all this talk of bears! That was a likely story. Of course there were bears in Manitoba, but in all his years surveying he had only seen two and those at a distance. Some people were just scared of everything wild—needed cast-iron jockstraps before they set foot out of the city. Not him. He wasn’t a coward.

  And they couldn’t make him stay in town if he wanted to leave. He didn’t have his maps anymore, but he recalled that there was another small town called Seven Forks that was maybe one or two days’ walk away. He wouldn’t enjoy being out there alone, but the kid couldn’t come. Even if Mark wasn’t hurt, he was whiny and lazy, lying around in bed, eating bacon and eggs—good eggs, real eggs and not powdered that were burned so tough you couldn’t cut them with a knife—and coffeecake with melting butter—with a pile of books and crossword puzzles to keep him entertained. The damn kid didn’t even care that their equipment was missing! Well, he’d make better time without him.

  Pete looked around quickly, making sure he wasn’t observed, and then headed for the nearest thicket of trees.

  * * *

  I was once again up on my roof, dealing with the moss and wondering how I could get to Seven Forks without the surveyor or young Thomas finding out I was gone, when I saw Pete Mitchell sneaking into the forest. He had bottles of water tucked in his pockets and I knew the idiot was going to try and walk to the next town.

  And being an experienced hiker and able to navigate by the sun, there was every reason to think that he could make it.

  “Damn it.”

  Chuck and Thomas were off to see Wendell, and I couldn’t very well have asked them to bring the surveyor back anyway.

  It was a pity I couldn’t conjure up a ferocious bear or some hungry wolves….

  On that thought I looked down and saw Max lying around with Sisu.

  Well, actually I could conjure up some wolves….

  I looked around for Ricky but didn’t see him. Usually he was with Sisu, but maybe she had gotten bored waiting for him to finish breakfast and come visiting on her own. That was convenient because I couldn’t take the boy along this time.

  I scrambled off the roof and went in to fetch the shotgun. Just because we hadn’t seen any bears lately, didn’t mean they weren’t there. I hadn’t been kidding when I told the recruit that I never went into the forest without Max and a gun.

  “Max, Sisu.” I made the palm out gesture that means quiet. Both dogs were on their feet and looking expectant.

  Part of the training that Wendell’s wolf-dogs receive is to remain silent while in the forest. Unless there is a bear. At that they are to sing out when given the signal. Sisu was young, but she usually followed Max’s lead. I had to hope she would this time. I didn’t want to drive the surveyor in the wrong direction. They needed to be quiet until we got ahead of him.

  We needed to flank Pete, to get ahead of him so we could drive him back toward town instead of deeper into the forest. Fortunately, he was keeping to the deer path. I knew a faster if rougher route to Potter’s Ridge.

  I hurried past the remains of the downed plane that had eventually brought Chuck—and the Russians—to the Gulch. There had been no way to remove the wreckage, so it rotted under the bindweed and brambles. Birds were picking the berry vines clean and they were welcome. We humans were a bit superstitious and did not harvest fruit from places of violent death, though Ricky had asked me if we could come pick the berries when they were ripe. I had put him off. Now they were almost gone.

  The morning sun was behind me. In the open spaces I could see my shadow running ahead, but still easily outpaced by Max and Sisu. There was still some dew about, gleaming silver where the early sun touched it.

  I heard Pete crashing around in the distance and knew we were pulling ahead. I would stop at the ravine that bordered Sasquatch territory. There was a kind of cliff wall on the far side. One got amazing echoes there. Two wolves could sound like twenty as the stone bounced the noise around and then sent it back toward town greatly and eerily amplified. Anyone in town who was outside would hear it. Hopefully they would recognize that it was Max and Sisu and not be alarmed. Wendell certainly would and he would probably come around to ask what the heck I’d been doing to his carefully trained dogs.

  * * *

  Pete froze completely when he heard the first wolf howl. A moment later another voice joined in and then it seemed like dozens of animal voices. He had stopped walking to pull a tick off of his arm.

  Damned deer trail, he’d thought. There were bound to be ticks. But he wasn’t thinking anything now. He just wanted to know where the howls were coming from and keep away from them—but he couldn’t tell. The noise was everywhere, all around him.

  Except back toward town.

  Pete abandoned the trail, hoping for a shortcut through the woods and brambles.

  * * *

  Max and Sisu were having a grand time, howling at the tops of their voices and enjoying their operatic echoes. I couldn’t hear what Pete was doing above the yowling and decided that I should climb up a tree. If he was still on the deer trail I should be able to see him.

  I hadn’t gotten five feet off the ground when I heard the screaming.

  “Beeeaaaaar!”

  I dropped to the ground, grabbed my shotgun, whistled for the wolves, and started running toward the surveyor, praying he was wrong about seeing a bear but having the horrible feeling that he might not be. There had been too much terror in his voice.

  The surveyor was lucky. The bear was a young female, more interested in her patch of berries than in chasing a smelly old human.

  I had to order the dogs not to rush her because they were snarling and ready to try and take her down. Though small as compared to a male, two wolves couldn’t bring her down. I had a gun and would use it if I had to—but only if I had to.

  After a moment of annoyance, the bear finally decided that she had had enough of the racket and began ambling off in the direction of Wendell’s house.

  I was relieved, though did not let my guard down. If one bear had come to town for the late berries there could be others.

  The dogs were disappointed that I wouldn’t let them chase her and kept whining, but no harm, no foul, as they say in sporting circles. I wasn’t going to kill the animal just because she had a sweet tooth.

  It took a stern voice, but e
ventually Max and Sisu decided to obey and followed me back to town. I was lavish with my praise. They had done all that I asked and deserved a treat. I had some dried venison.

  * * *

  “What is that racket?” the Flowers demanded of Big John, putting down her paintbrush. They were applying varnish to one of the tables that had been damaged in the fire last spring.

  “It sounds like Max and Sisu,” he answered after a moment.

  “They must be at Butterscotch’s cabin. I should go fetch Ricky. I know he loves being with the Mountie, but Chuck is probably busy with the new recruit.”

  “You go ahead. I can finish here.”

  * * *

  “Where’s Ricky?” the Flowers demanded as I emerged from the woods behind the panicked surveyor whose chipmunk cheeks were bright red with exertion and whip marks from low tree limbs. He had run out of breath from screaming and running and was bent over wheezing. I hoped he didn’t have a weak heart.

  “Ricky?” I said blankly.

  “He’s not with you? But there’s Sisu and…. Then the bear really is….” The Flowers went from a shade of buttermilk to the green you find growing on old cheese. I jumped forward as she collapsed, glad that there was something inside the dress that folded in half as it fell to the ground because for a moment it had looked empty.

  “Pete!” I said sharply to the shaken and gasping surveyor. “Go to the inn. Tell Big John that Ricky is missing and we need the search parties. Go on! Run!”

  The wheezing surveyor obeyed as best he could. I slapped gently at Judy’s cheeks wishing I had some water or smelling salts. I was giving her one minute to revive and then I was taking the dogs back into the forest whether she was awake or not. Her eyes finally fluttered open and she moaned. I rolled her onto her side so she could be sick.

  “Your father is bringing help,” I said as I held back her hair. “I am taking Max and Sisu into the woods right now. Ricky is probably looking for Sisu and following her tracks to Potter’s Ridge. That isn’t where the bear was. I saw it. It ran the opposite way, heading toward Wendell’s. You tell everyone that when they get here. The bear is going toward Wendell’s cabin. Now you pull yourself together, woman. Ricky is fine.”