by Ashna Graves
***
Skipper did not come back to Billie Creek that night as promised. Neva stayed up late listening for the sound of his rig and writing in her journal. When she gave up and went to bed at last, she did not fall into her usual easy sleep, but was troubled by a persistent image of Lance—a younger version of Reese—hunkered in a remote shack, alone, hungry, and afraid. That Reese had decided to trust her was a surprising compliment, and to let him down seemed suddenly shameful, even cowardly. The worst she would suffer if she delivered the food was to lose a day at the mine, while, on the good side of the ledger, she would justify Reese’s trust and bring comfort to a frightened and hungry young man. She would do this one additional thing for the Cotters and then withdraw from involvement.
Relieved to have made a decision, she fell asleep and woke up feeling energetic and even eager for the adventure. She recopied Reese’s instructions in large block letters that could be read easily while driving, and headed down the canyon without taking time to split wood or fill the lamps. This time, instead of going halfway to Sumpter in search of the right road, she stopped at a ranch house in the general area where the first turnoff should be and waded through the usual dogs to a weathered front door.
“Angel Creek Road? That’s it right across the highway there,” said the man in a thermal shirt and red suspenders who answered her knock. “You won’t see no sign sayin’ Angel Creek, not if you paid to see it. It ain’t there, that’s why. And it ain’t there on account of Whalen Hawley and his damn ego. That road’s been Angel Creek Road since before I could button my own fly. Why wouldn’t it be? That’s Angel Creek itself flowin’ right along it. But no, that wasn’t okay with Whalen Hawley, no, Whalen Hawley had to have a road named after his own self, Hawley Road. Why? He don’t need no why to do what he wants to do. Why? Because he owns half the county and don’t care a rat’s knuckle for you or me or Joe Blow either.”
Nodding and smiling, Neva listened to the old man until it became clear that nothing other than her departure would stop the bitter recital. “Thank you, thank you so much,” she said, backing away.
Angel Creek/Hawley Road traveled up through long, easy switchbacks spotted with seepages where the plant growth was lush and bright green. Whether or not she was doing the right thing, at least she was getting a close view of the foothills and canyons on the north side of Billie Mountain. As usual on the north side, it was wetter here, and more heavily treed, mainly with pines.
Little Spring Road was marked by a hand-painted wooden sign nailed to a fence post, and not far beyond it Forest Service roads took off in all directions. She turned onto 3580 and began to watch more carefully, stopping to look for small numbered posts wherever a spur road split off, no matter how rough or overgrown. The 150 was clearly marked, but when she reached the fork soon afterward, she stopped to consider. Reese had said to turn left, but that branch looked as though it had not been traveled for a long time, certainly not by gravel trucks. It was possible, however, that the quarry had been abandoned long ago along with the road, and if Reese had expert knowledge of anything besides mining, it was the back roads of Elkhorn County.
She turned left. Laboring in low gear, the car crawled around bends and over ruts for so long that she thought of turning around, but then the road leveled and soon ended at a half-circle of pale stone walls. Like the Barlow Mine Pit, the old quarry was silent, the air still and hot. It had clearly not been used for years, probably since the Forest Service last resurfaced the nearby logging and access roads. There was no view, nothing to be seen but rock, the line of trees across the road, and plain sky overhead. The quiet and trapped heat cast a soporific spell that made her long for coffee.
She splashed water on her face from the jug in the car, then settled on a large rock to consider the situation. Weeds grew tall and rank wherever there was a scrap of soil, including on ledges and in cracks in the rock walls. It didn’t look as though anyone had come through here in a very long time, though if Reese was right that Lance had fled on foot from Billie Creek, he would have walked over the top and down to the line cabin rather than coming through the quarry. Estimating where the quarry lay in relation to Billie Mountain, she guessed the distance from the Barlow Mine to be about fifteen miles, less than a day’s walk for a healthy young man—or even for her at this point.
Reese had said the trail was on the west side of the quarry, but she could see from here that trails led out of the half-bowl on both sides. The instructions had been correct so far, so she would stick with them until there was a good reason not to, and the trails very likely met on top in any case.
But when she hitched the canvas sack of food onto her shoulder and started toward the west-side trail, Juju barked and fixed her with an anxious look.
“What is it, little pal?”
The dog had explored while Neva sat reflecting on the rock, and now ran in the direction of the east-side trail and then returned to Neva. It was such a cartoon pantomime—Follow me!—that Neva again studied the zigzagging path leading steeply up through weeds and tumbled rocks. If Lance had been through here, and he might well have walked down to the quarry, Juju would pick up his scent. Whichever route she tried first, if it proved to be wrong she would backtrack and go the other way.
“Okay, pal, we’ll give it a try,” she said, and changed direction. The little dog took up her usual position at Neva’s heel with no more fuss.
The route was difficult and slithery until it topped the quarry, where it turned to a pleasant path that wound through open pine forest. When it joined the other trail, as expected, Juju raced ahead. Neva called her back but when the dog dashed forward a few minutes later she let her go. Lance would see Juju before he saw Neva and realize that whoever followed must be a friend.
As Reese had described, the trail met a creek and followed it to a small meadow. On the other side of the creek the meadow grass was so clearly trodden into a path that Neva felt a surge of triumph, as though she had solved a tough puzzle, followed by a sense of relief when she saw the small cabin at the far side of the meadow. Reese had been right every step of the way, and her mission was not in vain.
She looked about for Juju but the little dog was not to be seen. “Lance,” she called, starting along the meadow path. “Lance! Hello, I’ve brought food.”
There was no sign of life at the cabin, no face in the window, no smoke from the roof pipe, no underwear drying on the porch rail. She reached the two planks that served for porch steps but instead of going right up them, she set the heavy bag of food on the porch, then moved back a little to study the rustic cabin. It must have served as a line shack for several generations of cowboys caught out overnight. Roughly built of weathered logs, poles and boards, it was about the right size to contain one set of bunk beds, a table and cook stove. Judging by the lone window next to the plank door, it must be dark inside as well as cramped. A stump hollowed into the shape of a seat stood in front of the window. On the plank floor below it were scattered wood shavings.
Avoiding the two rickety stairs, Neva stepped directly onto the porch, squatted by the stump, and felt the shavings. They were limber, slightly damp, and they smelled of sap. Someone had sat here whittling very recently.
Suddenly more alert, she held her breath to listen but heard only a faint stirring of air in the nearby trees. She knocked on the door, tried the handle, and pushed. It didn’t give although there was no visible lock. Turning, she surveyed the meadow, which showed no signs of disturbance apart from the narrow path.
The small window was covered, and there were no others, as she discovered on circling the cabin. It must be very dark inside indeed. A sense of acute solitude made her call and whistle for Juju but the little dog did not appear.
From the back of the cabin a trail led into the woods. Uneasy, missing the dog, Neva followed the path a short distance until she spotted a plank set across two stumps above a hole in the ground. She didn’t need to look any closer to know its purpose, and her nose
told her that it had been used recently, most likely that very morning.
“Lance!” she shouted. “Juju! Angie!”
Impatient now rather than uneasy, she walked briskly back to the cabin, circled to the front, and discovered a young man sitting on the porch stump with Juju at his feet, both wearing an air of having been there for hours.
“Lance?”
“Yeah.” He did not stop whittling.
He was very like Reese, but not like him in the least. In basic appearance the two were clearly brothers, but while Reese’s every gesture and facial expression were aimed straight at the world, Lance’s manner was passive and watchful. She might well have frightened him, even with Juju for an emissary. He must have watched through the window, trying to figure out what sort of intruder she was.
“Sorry if I startled you. Reese asked me to bring supplies.” She indicated the bag.
“Why?”
“Because he thought you needed food,” she said, wondering at the foolish question. Though he had been described as not very bright, she hadn’t believed this could be literally true of anyone closely related to Reese.
“Why didn’t he bring it himself?”
“Well, he couldn’t, you know. He’s in jail.”
His surprise and confusion reminded her that he would have no way of knowing what had happened since he ran away from the mine. It was up to her to break the bad news. “I’m so sorry, Lance. Of course you wouldn’t know. He was arrested for, well, in connection with a terrible thing that happened at your mine. I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, but Roy DeRoos died a few days after you left. They thought at first that it was an accident but he appears to have been killed deliberately and they’ve arrested Reese for it, without any evidence that I know of. I don’t believe he did it, which is one reason I visited him in jail.”
Placing the stick and knife on the porch boards by the pile of shavings, Lance sat up straight with one hand on each knee as he gazed out at the meadow for some time in silence. Then his gaze shifted to the bag of supplies.
“What’s in there?”
“Mostly canned food, beans and stew. I was afraid fresh things wouldn’t keep in the heat.”
“You have an opener? I couldn’t find an opener in this place. I had to use the axe.”
“I put in an opener. And a couple of books.”
He stood with the slow care of an older man or someone with an injury even though there was nothing visibly wrong with him. Crossing to where she had left the bag, he knelt on one knee and took out the books that lay on top. They were Westerns, from the small stock at the mine. Setting them aside, he removed cans and other items one by one until he came to a bag of dried apricots she had added from her own supplies. Wrenching open the heavy plastic, he put a handful of apricots in his mouth and said while chewing, “Looks okay. I about ran out. There’s mostly soup.”
Wishing she had brought more fruit, and vegetables as well, Neva felt a confusing mixture of sympathy and outrage. He had shown no concern about Roy’s death or his brother’s arrest, and no appreciation for Reese’s effort to get him food despite his own problems. But the young man was starving, and might not be absorbing information very well. Once fed, he would no doubt think more clearly about her news. “Reese is in jail,” she repeated. “He said to tell you not to worry about him, and he particularly stressed that you should stay away from town until this all settles down. Do you have any message for him in case I see him before you do?”
“Reese?” Lance considered her with a wondering expression, as though she’d mentioned someone barely known to him, then returned to stuffing apricots into his mouth. When he had emptied the bag, consuming them all apart from one he gave to Juju, he took a long, shuddering breath, looked up, and said with a sudden boyish smile, “Thanks. I was pretty hungry.”
“You’re very welcome. I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything fresh, but I wasn’t at all sure I’d find you here and thought I might have to leave the food on the porch. You probably know this, but I’m staying at the Billie Creek Mine for the summer. I have no idea when Reese will be out of jail, but I really do think they’ll let him go.” She looked at Juju, who lay with her nose inches from Lance’s foot, and said with regret, “I suppose you want to keep the dog with you?”
“I guess so. She can have the soup.”
“Well, then, I’ll be off. Is there anything I should tell Reese?”
Lance bent his head and appeared to be studying the pile of books next to his knee. After lengthy thought, he said, “Tell him I’m okay. And thanks for the food.”
“Fine, though you may end up seeing him before I do.” She reached to pat the little dog’s head. “Bye-bye, pal. You were very good company.” She waited for a moment to let Lance say something more—to thank her—but his attention was on a can of beef stew. “Goodbye then. Take care of yourself and maybe I’ll see you sometime back at the mine.”
She walked briskly down the meadow. At the creek she turned to wave. Lance was standing now, watching her, the can in one hand, the opener in the other. Juju also had sat up. Lance lifted the can in response to her wave, then dropped the opener onto the porch at his feet and dug into the stew with his fingers.
Clearly, she had done the right thing in bringing the food, and now her involvement with the Cotter brothers was finished.
Chapter Twenty-one
The drive down from the quarry went faster than going up. Though she missed Juju already, she felt lighter in spirit than when she left the mine, and easily put Reese and Lance out of her thoughts. As she approached the turning that would take her back over the pass to the Dry River, she had a sudden idea and pulled onto the shoulder to consider it. If she continued straight on toward Elkhorn and I-84, she could be in Hatlee in less than two hours. The day was more than half gone already, and by the time she got home to Billie Creek there would be time only for a short walk. It made sense to take care of all her outside errands at once, including meeting Enid Gale.
An unexpected bypass took her around Elkhorn and she was soon driving south on the interstate through dry, rocky hills sparely dotted with junipers that stood above their spots of shade like gnomish umbrellas. She reached for the radio dial but withdrew her hand. Along with avoiding book reviews, newspapers and periodicals in general, she had resolved to avoid radio news for the summer, to give herself a complete break from the crazy outside world. The sound of warm wind through the window was sufficient.
The exit to Hatlee was clearly marked, though the road was so narrow and winding that she would have suspected a wrong turn had there been any choices. And when she reached Hatlee, she drove quickly through what she assumed were the outskirts, only to come out on the other side.
Hatlee, Oregon, was not quite a ghost town, but most of it was missing, its heyday long past. Houses and shops had disappeared from their lots like neglected teeth, leaving the few remaining buildings scattered higgledy-piggledy over the weedy ground. Such desolate Western towns were dotted all over the arid part of the state, some abandoned when the gold was gone, others when a promised highway or railroad failed to go through. A few, like Greenhorn and Granite, had been partly resettled in recent years by solitary souls looking for the cheap and picturesque, but Hatlee was not one of these. Although clearly only a fragment of its original self, it had never been fully deserted, judging by the good condition of the few remaining buildings.
Neva turned, drove all the way back through town, turned again, and cruised through a second time going just five miles an hour. First came scattered sheds and outbuildings, then about a dozen solid two-story frame houses with gaps where others had once stood. The Hatlee General Store and the small wood-frame post office appeared to be the only commercial and official enterprises, though there were benches and boxes full of bright flowers to mark this minute town center. Both store and post office were closed. Neva pulled up to the curb outside the post office and turned off the ignition. Having counted on the clerk to dire
ct her to Enid Gale, she felt momentarily at a loss.
Not a soul appeared on the road or in the tidy yards of the houses within sight. The open car window let in the sound of birds, a distant lawnmower, and a rhythmic banging that suggested carpentry. Clearly there were people about. She would return to the edge of town, park the car, and walk along the road until she spotted someone.
On her slow drive through, Neva had taken the shacks for chicken coops and small barns, but as she passed them a third time she saw that these must be dwellings of some kind. Laundry hung outside one rakish little structure and window curtains showed in another. Rather than shacks, the buildings now struck her as imaginative playhouses, the sort of elaborate little dwelling that clever kids might build with help from a cooperative adult, or that a set-builder might construct for a film about Sixties communes. She stopped the car on the grassy edge near the outermost of these quirky structures, a small barn covered in colored tarpaper shingles arranged with a rainbow effect and randomly interrupted by small windows. A stovepipe rose jauntily from the patchwork roof.
It was charming, but what was it? As she wondered, the front door opened and out came a figure so perfectly suited to the structure that Neva felt an impulse to applaud and offer compliments. The old woman wore pink overalls over a turtleneck the same white as her hair, which was swept up into a loose topknot. The overalls were tucked into large rubber boots. Her arm was hooked through the handle of a bucket as gracefully as though through a purse strap. Nodding once at Neva without evident surprise or curiosity, she set off down the road.
Neva got right out of the car but the old woman’s brisk stride had taken her nearly to the first of the big houses by the time she caught up.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for Enid Gale?”