Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2)

by Daniel D. Lamoreux

  “No, Dearheart,” Cochise said, kissing her on the nose. “I'm not. What I meant was, I've got a live one. I've got a sucker.”

  Bly sighed. “Isn't that another fish?”

  Unable to take it anymore, and unable to hide his masticated cheeseburger at the same time, Bodaway interrupted with, “Who and what do you got?”

  With a laugh borrowed from a mad scientist in a fifties' B-movie Cochise told his story and laid out his 'evil plot'. Yellowstone Park, for whatever reason, was full of protesters, reporters, environmental activists and you name it; there'd apparently been a jail break at the local white man's do-gooders society. Among those kicking and screaming, ranting and raving, pushing and shoving, for attention and a pat on the back were a group called Yellowstone… something… Yellowstone Forever, that's what it was. Among the Yellowstone Forever folks, Cochise had latched on to a foreign seismologist.

  “A what?”

  “From where?”

  “Give me a second!” He was an African or something. No, an African, but he spoke English with this weird accent like he was British or Australian or something. South African, that's what he'd said. He was a seismologist…

  “Wait, I'm telling you! He measures earthquakes; has equipment out the wazoo. And he goes around measuring the ground shaking and guessing when the big one is going to wipe everybody out.”

  “People pay him for that?”

  “A ton!”

  Cochise went on to explain that Hollo, that was the guy's name, had a free hand at this earthquake work he was doing. The only guideline being that, apparently, his data had to back up the position he'd been hired to defend. He also had a bone to pick.

  Hollo had gotten into earth science through his activism in his native country. Mining, particularly diamond mining, was a huge commercial industry in the area of South Africa where he'd come from, an area directly over what he called the “African Rift system.” Cochise shrugged to show it was all Greek to him. Apparently not knowing what it meant didn't hamper his plan.

  “Is there a point to this?” Elina asked. She loved cheesy fries but they were sooo fattening.

  “I'm getting there,” Cochise insisted. “Hollo was going on and on about how this mining was activating the natural faults in this rift system, pulling the plates apart by several millimeters a year.”

  Bly scrunched her nose, held up her thumb and forefinger to a width of “several millimeters,” and laughed. “Oh, baby!” Elina said, and joined her.

  “I guess that's a lot in seismo… whatever,” Cochise said, waving it away.

  “You were getting to the point,” Bodaway said.

  “Point is… This dude believes that 95% of South Africa's earthquakes are caused by mining, that mining triggers these disasters. He came here, for a big chunk of change, to help Yellowstone Forever spread the word about the imminent danger from Yellowstone's subterranean super-volcano. But he really don't give two farts about Yellowstone's super-volcano. The bee in his bonnet is about diamond miners in South Africa.”

  You swear the moment had been choreographed and rehearsed, Bly, Elina, and Bodaway, all at the same instant and in the same exasperated voice demanded, “So what?!”

  “So I told him we could help him kill two birds with the same stone. I told him we know where the Park Service is illegally mining without anyone knowing about it. That they're running a gold mine on the QT, and getting rich off the innocent hard working tax payers, and that – if his theory held water – I had no doubt they were causing all these recent earth tremors around here, too. I told him we could help him get all the evidence he needed to take back home and fight his pet project in South Africa and that Yellowstone Forever could pay the freight. That all he has to do is pay us, cold hard cash, to get him safely to the secret gold mine and back again.”

  “The park's running a secret gold mine?” Bly asked in an amazed whisper. “I didn't know that.”

  Bodaway sighed. “You didn't know it because it doesn't exist.”

  “It doesn't?”

  “No, dear,” Cochise said, kissing her nose again. “I told a fib.”

  “I don't get it. Why?”

  “It's what the old ones used to call a 'Snipe Hunt'. For fun, we take him into the wilderness to look for something that doesn't exist. We just have the added incentive that, for the experience, he'll give us his money.”

  The plan was then laid out in terms even Bly could understand. They would lead Hollo into the backcountry, collect their fees and leave his South African butt to fend for himself when they slipped away into the night unnoticed.

  It was going to be easy money… and a lot of it!

  Chapter 33

  Born high in the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness of southern Montana, Slough Creek wended and wandered its way south and west oblivious of man's artificial boundaries. Beginning in the Gallatin National Forest, it crossed into Yellowstone National Park, became a part-time Wyoming resident until it disappeared into the Lamar and, ultimately, the Yellowstone River, then lost its own identity as it mixed with waters from across the northern Rocky Mountain range and continued its journey to distant places. During its short life, however, Slough Creek was something special.

  Named in 1867 by a party of prospectors, it had been the target of many an eye, gleaming with gold fever, where men ventured hardily to its remote locations to pan for magic dust and dream of wealth and fame. The fever subsided and the Park took control. Still the men came, now in search of another precious find, the golden flash of slab-sided fish, speckled black, with a crimson slash below its jaw. Cutthroat trout was the new treasure and brought even more adventurers to the banks of Slough Creek than did the promise of riches.

  As the towers, the gatekeepers, and the fish they'd caught, Avondre Hollo, hiked along the trail, the seismologist was awestruck by the beauty of the place. Like the graying temples of a middle aged man, snow dappled the upper reaches of Cutoff Mountain and shined brightly in the late afternoon sun. In stark contrast were the black forests covering its steep slopes below, the dark green of fir approaching the valley floor, and the lighter green, gold and red, brown, rust, and yellow of willows, sagebrush, leaves, and grasses along the sparkling creek waters flowing over rounded white stone at their feet.

  Hollo stopped on the trail and dropped his backpack. The girls, following behind, took his cue and dropped theirs as well. It took a moment before Cochise and Bodaway realized they were hiking on alone. When he did notice, Bodaway applied the brakes and grabbed Cochise by the shoulder. He nodded at the three dawdlers and rolled his eyes. The two backtracked to the group.

  “What's the problem?” Bodaway asked.

  “We stopped 'cause he stopped,” Elina answered defiantly.

  “Hy, bru, this ploice is so kiff. Em toikin in the beauty and wonder. Eets to die for.”

  That's what Hollo said in that goofy accent of his. What it apparently meant was, the landscape was gorgeous, that he was taking in the beauty, and that it was all to die for. He continued that way, the whole trip, saying, “Sorry. Sorry,” every other sentence, sticking in H's where they didn't belong, rolling his R's, snapping his consonants like whips. When he was agitated he growled, “Eish.” With every scratch or bug bite he hollered, “Eina!” To the ghost dancers, the guy was like a visitor from another planet.

  Hollo's basic complaint was that diamond miners were causing the quakes devastating his home country, and had been for the last half century, all for piles of money. He hoped the promised Slough Creek gold miners could, with his fancy equipment, be recorded doing the same. With proof, he intended to return home and stop those he called, “The greedy cootsies.”

  “Well,” Bodaway said, lost but pretending he was interested. “That's great, but you're not going to prove anything standing here. Let's get moving or we'll be setting up camp in the dark.”

  As they traveled farther and farther from the trailhead, the numbers of other hikers and fishermen dwindled. The foursome and their gul
lible client continued on. As Cochise had mapped it out, they needed to go far enough into nowhere that, when they ditched the foreigner, they would have a healthy head start back to civilization before he found his way back or found help.

  What turned out to be the last fisherman they saw was knee deep in Slough Creek, casting a fly line in practiced elegance. He turned, offered a wave, then carried on gracefully teasing the fish. As they passed, Hollo spotted a pile of dead fish, too small to be keepers, lying on the bank near the trail.

  “Chull, bru. Why is Uncle doin' that, right now?” Hollo asked in alarm.

  The Arapaho dancers were catching on, slowly. “Bru” was something akin to 'brother'. “Uncle” was anybody over the age of thirty. And every other sentence Hollo spoke ended in some variation of “Now” or “Now now.” It was going to be a long day. This time his beef was the angler tossing the small fish on the bank to die.

  “National Park Service requirement,” Bodaway told him. “Cutthroat trout are considered native here. Rainbow trout are invaders. Any rainbow or other non-native trout caught in the river upstream from the campground have to be killed. Anglers caught returning them to the wild will be heavily fined. They recommend killing them below the campground too but it's not a requirement.”

  “Eina!” Hollo shouted as if he'd been stabbed. “Uncle wasting good fish. Make a lekker braai.”

  “What did you say?”

  Hollo paused, drew breath, and spoke slowly. “Make a good bar-be-que, man. A waste.”

  “That's why I love white environmentalists,” Cochise said with molasses-thick sarcasm. “They pick a date in history, look at what creatures and habitat existed in an area at that time, and declare that snapshot represents the natural order.”

  “Yeah,” Bodaway said, interrupting. “Then spend millions of tax dollars capturing, transporting, and killing animals to keep their phony balance. The most hypocritical part is, it requires giving a constant middle finger to evolution, which they all claim to believe in.”

  Cochise and Bodaway had the same thought at the same moment, it seemed almost a shame to rip this South African dude off. He was such a nice guy and so sincere. But then, hey, caveat emptor and other white man's slogans.

  They passed down the trail as the angler set his hook and played another feisty piscatorial prize.

  As the sun began its final descent toward the mountain peaks to the west and the shadows began to lengthen, it signaled to the insect world an opportunity for doing their daily chores absent the heat of day. The trout began dimpling the surface in a diligent feeding frenzy while the mosquitoes initiated their own attack along the shoreline. The hiking party took their cue. They left the trail for higher ground and a meadow opening where the breeze would aid their defense. It was time to set up camp.

  Now Hollo really got excited and a little angry. He shouted “Eish!” and “Eina!” before and after several otherwise absolutely undecipherable sentences. They eventually determined he was upset they were making camp with no sign of the promised gold mine.

  Cochise pointed up the canyon between the surrounding peaks. “The mine is up there,” he told him. “After our long journey, we'll camp here and start up in the morning. We'll be there before lunch.”

  That calmed him. Hollo smiled as everything was apparently “lekker” again and they were all “bru.”

  “Don't thank me,” Cochise said modestly. He slapped his palm. “Pay me.”

  “Sorry? Sorry, sorry?”

  “That was our agreement. You would pay us in full, in cash, when we reached camp. Well, bru,” Cochise smiled. “Here we are at camp. We kept our part of the bargain. Now you keep yours.”

  “Sorry. Right! Sorry!” Hollo threw his bag down, babbled while he dug, and came up with a fat wad of green and a big smile. He counted the money off in Cochise's hand. “As promised, bru.”

  They shook hands, their deal completed.

  They made quick work of setting camp, building a fire, and cooking a light meal. Afterward, the client said he was going to dive into his sleeping bag. It had been a long day and he couldn't wait to begin the “great work tomorrow, just now.” They all wished him good night. Unable to resist the devil, Cochise bid Hollo good bye.

  The ghost dancers hung around the campfire waiting for the seismologist to fall asleep. Once he did, cash in hand, they intended to get the heck out of there.

  “We can't just strand the guy in the middle of nowhere,” Elina said in a whisper. “Can we?”

  “We're not,” Bodaway told her, soothing her conscience. “He's in no danger. There's nothing out here but coyote and bison.”

  “And bear,” Elina put in. “And mountain lion.”

  Bodaway nodded dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. But mostly just coyote and bison. He's a half day's walk to a well-visited campground and he knows the way.”

  “And,” Cochise added, “there'll be piles of little rainbow trout for him to munch on when he gets there.” He and Bodaway shared a laugh. Elina frowned but nodded her acceptance. Bly didn't get it, but didn't care, she was ready to get out of there.

  Hollo had been exhausted. Sleep came instantaneously but not soundly. He found the area beautiful beyond description. But it was also intimidating. The vast Rocky Mountains made him feel incredibly small. It was a standard joke in South Africa to tell every foreigner you met that you had a lion as a pet, just to see how naive and gullible they were. But the reality was Hollo knew nothing at all about big game and this place teemed with it; wolves, mountain lion, black bear, and grizzly hungrily attacked his subconscious and he awoke at regular intervals to the tiniest noises from the surrounding darkness.

  The last time it happened the noise that snapped him into full wakefulness was the horrendous scream of another human being.

  The foursome outside his tent had made the decision it was time to vacate the premises. There was no need to gather their tents and sleeping bags, they could buy more if they wanted with their new found wealth and there was no point risking waking their sucker who lay sleeping only yards from the fire. The towers and the gatekeepers simply grabbed their backpacks and started out of camp.

  That was when the grass and brush came alive.

  The shadowy attacking army moved with the speed of lightning and struck with the same power of destruction. For a brief instant, the first time in his short life, the terrified Cochise felt tall. He stared down at the Nimerigar while they ran at him like rats. Then their knives flashed and he was cut down. On the ground, beneath their savage blades, he was plain old “Ar-nold!” Williams again.

  Elina and Bodaway were on the opposite side of the fire when they heard Cochise hit the ground. Their friend had no time to utter a challenge or a warning. As the oncoming swarm ran over the carnage and centered their attention on the pair, Elina screamed like she had never screamed in her life. She turned to flee and ran into her partner and best friend. Elina and Bodaway both fell in a heap. The Nimerigar swarm came and neither ever regained their feet.

  Hollo exploded from behind his tent flap and saw the indescribable. The only information his brain could process was that he needed to run… fast. Wearing nothing but boxers and carrying nothing but terror, he dashed into the darkness behind his tent hell-bent on being anywhere but there. His action drew the attention of the invading horde. Growling and gnashing their teeth, they responded as all predators would. They went in chase of their fleeing prey.

  The camp had been completely overrun. The ghost dancers, save Bly, were dead. She was beneath an undercut bank in the creek with all, but her head from the nose up, submerged. She curled up tight, clenching a tree root under her to hold her place and remain still in the fast-moving icy waters. Bly would never be accused of knowing much. But she knew, just then, that whether she lived or died depended solely upon the fact that she hadn't better move or make a sound.

  Even in his panic, Hollo knew there was no point in running back the way they'd come. Civilization in that direction was four hou
rs away. He needed help now. He ran instead in the direction Cochise had pointed, up the canyon, headed for the mine. He didn't know exactly where or how far away it was. All Hollo knew was that the secret government gold mine was there. If he could just reach it, he could find shelter and safety.

  The pursuit took little time.

  In the darkness, Hollo ran into a fallen tree and toppled straight to the ground beside it. There he lay bleeding from both shins, screaming, “Eina!” in horrible pain. That continued until a guttural voice called to him from the trees. So amazing was the voice that, despite the throbbing pain, Hollo stopped his screaming. English was the seismologist's second language. Incredibly, the voice spoke to him in his native tongue, Zulu.

  “Dark one,” it boomed. “You've erred in coming here.” Then the brush exploded as the creatures poured through.

  Hollo had never been a recreational reader. He'd certainly never been a reader of lurid genre pulp fiction. And he knew nothing at all about old American B-movies. Still, as he shrieked and surrendered his life-blood, it would have been interesting to get his scientific take on his having come all the way from the South African bush to Montana, USA in order to be killed and eaten by cannibals.

  Chapter 34

  Two Ravens pulled into Alice's driveway and turned off his engine. He looked at his passenger, the white ranger as Alice would have it, his best friend, Glenn Merrill, without speaking. Neither had said a word all the way from his outfitter's shop, but they'd certainly had words before leaving. They'd gone at it from twenty different ways, repeatedly asking the question, “What do we do now?” Every answer had led them there; not because either wanted it, but because it was apparent there really was no other answer. Whatever was happening involved Native Americans. Whatever was happening was out of this world. Their only trusted contact with the spiritual side of Indian life, Snow on the Mountains, was gone. Like it or not, believe it or not, there was nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to.