He would believe the estimate when he saw the timber with his own eyes, and that would be soon. Early next week he would walk the entire sale, every unit, with Bill Noonan, the district’s chief timber sale officer, who would also give him the final nod to start building the skid trails. Jacques had already cruised the lower units above the main landing which were now snow-free, and liked what he saw.
St. Clair enjoyed operating heavy equipment, though at present he had a couple of issues. One of the steel plates on the left track of his dozer had developed a hairline crack and needed a welding job. Skidder number two also needed servicing. But such problems were the rule in the trade and he took them in stride. Over a career spanning two decades Jacques had scouted jobs up and down the Rocky Mountains, from Montana to New Mexico, and whatever he lacked in panache he made up for with practiced skill and steely determination. He even drew a measure of pride vying with conditions beyond his control, fog, snow, cold, rain. The elements did not overly concern him. However, deadlines, shrinking margins and bureaucratic bullshit were something else again.
Normally, maintenance was Francis Delacour’s responsibility, but the boss had just exempted his foreman from some of his duties because his wife, Rosemary, was nearly nine months pregnant with their first child. Francis had already moved Rose to a hotel in Granby to keep her close, and intended to be at her side for the delivery. Jacques thought Rose was already near enough to term to cut his foreman some vacation time. The previous day, he had told Francis to drop everything.
“Stow it. I want you out of here. Rosemary needs you.”
“But boss,” Francis had objected, “There’s stuff to be done. The skidder – ”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of the skidder. You need to be with your wife. Just go! Get the hell out of here.”
“Thanks, boss.” Francis strode off toward his truck wiping his greasy hands on his jeans, but turned around again beaming as he back-stepped. “Could be as soon as this weekend. Hah!”
“Give Rose my best, Francis. I will expect you next Monday, bright and early. I’ll need your help with the cat. The tread will keep until then…”
“Sure, boss.”
“Hey, is it a boy or a girl?”
“A girl. Lucy.”
With a laugh Jacques waved him off.
The boss strolled to his pickup. There were errands to run. He needed to stop by the branch bank in Granby to transfer sufficient funds into his business account to meet his payroll and he also planned to check on his crew. By now, all of the men should have moved to the Forest Service campground he had reserved in the Kawuneechee Valley for their exclusive use. The old camp had not been used for years and was conveniently located about three miles from the job site. It was a scenic spot, not far from the headwaters of the Colorado River, with a terrific view of Rocky Mountain National Park.
Most of his loggers would probably scatter for the extended weekend; but Shorty, one of his oldest hands, who was a bachelor, had agreed to stay behind and keep watch over the new camp.
Jacques was more concerned than usual about security because the Bowen Gulch sale had stirred up a hornet’s nest of controversy. Judging from the press, feelings were running high across the state. There had already been two demonstrations at the district office. At one, the damn tree-huggers had occupied the building in a failed attempt to shut down the office. There had been a minor scuffle and several arrests. There had also been one case of vandalism, ”ecotage” they called it, about which Jacques was outraged. The incident was a case of terrorism pure and simple. Jacques viewed property destruction as a frontal assault on his way of life, yes, and everything he stood for. To be sure, the operator, a long-time acquaintance, had also been partly responsible because the man had foolishly left his equipment unattended.
There had been reports, actually nothing definite, mostly scuttlebutt via the grapevine, that environmental nut-jobs were threatening bigger actions if the sale went ahead. Of course, one could never tell with such rumors. Probably it was all smoke, so much bullshit. Talk was cheap. But there was no point taking unnecessary chances. It was why Jacques had parked his twenty-foot silver Gulf Stream camper on site, beside his office trailer, where he could keep a close eye on his dozer and skidders.
At the moment, Jacques was actually more concerned about a different kind of trouble closer to home. Short-manned, as usual, he had just hired two new cutters, Bobby Lighthorse and George Kowalsky, both experienced timber fallers. The men had seemed OK; however, one of them had already tangled with Wolfe Withers. There had been a fistfight; and possibly much worse had narrowly been averted when Francis stepped between the two and pried them apart. It had been a near thing.
Jacques hated this sort of trouble and did his best to head it off. Prevention was always the best approach. He was not certain who the instigator was but he suspected Wolfe, one of the most disagreeable and ill-tempered men he had ever met. The man could cast a shadow on a cloudy day. Jacques recalled the pent-up rage he had sensed boiling just below the surface, and wondered if hiring an ex-con straight out of prison had been a mistake. None of the other cutters would have anything to do with the man. They shunned him. But Jacques believed strongly that everyone deserves a second chance, period, no matter what a man might have done. The bottom line was that Wolfe was an experienced timber faller and Jacques was short-handed, even with the new hirees. He needed every saw and could not afford to lose even one.
Better keep an eye on him.
SIXTEEN
There was much to like about Bobby Lighthorse. He was detached though engaged, somewhat of a loner yet good company. He had a quick sense of humor, but also the steady determination of a man with a purpose, as if he were on a mission. There was no mistaking that he was a serious customer, an impression strengthened by the recent blow-up with Wolfe.
Now, as Tom rapped on Bobby’s camper door he heard laughter within, and the familiar voice of Dan Rather.
“Yo. Come in.”
Bobby was in the breakfast nook, seated across from another newly hired cutter with whom Tom was not acquainted. His name was George Kowalsky, “Pissant” for short.
“Did you hear? We start next week.”
“Yeah, I heard. You know Pissant?”
“Not really. We...”
“Wait,” Bobby said. “Piss, turn that off.”
“What is it? The nightly news?”
“Nah. H.W. Bush just finished a press conference. Same old shit.”
The other man had reached for the TV but instead of turning the volume down accidentally turned it up. As he fumbled with the knob the tattooed bust of a nude woman on his right biceps came alive. Tom was amused.
“Piss, show him Marilyn.”
When Pissant double-flexed his huge arm the generous bosom inflated in real time. The big breasts heaved and the cleavage deepened. The nipples beckoned. Bobby was smiling. Tom was speechless.
“Not b-b-b-bad, huh?” said George.
“No. Not bad,” Tom conceded. “For a tattoo.” Under the graven image a name was inscribed. “Who’s Marilyn?”
“That’s his latest,” Bobby said. “Right, Piss?”
“That’s wight.” The man’s chest swelled.
“But what if you change your mind?” Tom said. Obsolescence seemed an obvious concern. But Pissant gave no sign that he understood. Tom tried again. “What I mean is, what if you and Marilyn should break up for some reason?”
“Oh he don’t care about that,” Bobby said. “Show him Louise.”
“Oh, yeah, Loueeth. Wight heah.” The big man moved the slab of his other arm into view. It too was a montage. Several female visages were prominently displayed.
“So which is Louise?”
George pointed. “D-d-dis heah’s Loueeth. Shee’s my ex,” the man stammered.
“George has more ex’s than Carter has pills,” Bobby said.
“But Louise looks more like a fish.”
“Yeth,”
said Pissant. “Shee hath thum theeweus ithews.”
“Piss, show Tom your medals from Nam.”
“Oh sure,” said Pissant. With his big hand he stretched the collar of his cotton t-shirt down and to the right, beyond the elastic flex limit. In the process of half-ripping the shirt he exposed a patch of hairless chest below his collarbone distinguished by a row of rainbow-colored bars, bright red and blue ribbons, plus a silver medallion – all indelibly inscribed. Pissant tucked his chin to view his own glory.
“Very impressive carnage I must say. So, what’s this other insignia on your arm?”
“It’s my f-f-former unit,” Pissant said. “The 101st Airborne.”
“Wait ‘til you see the rest of him,” Bobby said.
“I can imagine.”
“Nope. I doubt if you can. Show him, Piss.” George was only too happy to oblige and peeled off his shirt, revealing more tattoos. The torso was covered front to back, stem to stern. The man was a walking art gallery. Of what remained the question. Tom’s mouth fell open.
“Jumping Geronimo! He’s an illustrated man.”
Pissant glowed with pride.
“Some guys wear their heart on their sleeve,” Bobby said. “George prefers inscription.”
“You wanna thee my Chineeth dwagon? It’s weel cool, a minature dwagon, with fiewy bweath.”
“Sure,” Tom said. “But later, OK?” He had come to visit with Bobby. “The boss was just in camp checking on Withers,” he said. “I noticed the two of you parked your campers as far away from one another as possible.”
“That was Francis’s idea.”
“What set him off?”
“Wolfe has a hard-on for trouble.”
“The way he went after you. The guy is violent.” Tom recalled his sole encounter with the man and the cold chill that had passed through him.
“On some level the sick bastard knows I’ve come for him.”
A long pause. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“But...”
“Look, I’ve been tracking Withers ever since he got out of prison. It took me awhile but I finally found him. They don’t call me ‘Lobo’ for nothing.”
“As in wolf…”
“It takes one to catch one.”
“But why?”
“Justice, brother. Or rather, because there is none.”
There was a sketchy tale about a mate who stumbled onto a drug deal going down in an alley off Larimer Street; wrong place, wrong time.
“Happened ‘bout a year and a half ago,” Bobby said. “Withers slit Johnny’s throat.”
“We heard Wolfe was in Canon City, up for murder.”
“You heard wrong. He walked. They sent him up for possession but he was paroled after only a year.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“So, you are here for revenge?”
“You think like a white man.”
Tom noticed the mushrooms lined up on the counter. They were so small. He examined one but was at a loss to identify it.
“I’ve never seen this kind.”
“You won’t find these in any mycology book. They are exceedingly rare. You have to know where to look, and they only produce fruiting bodies after a really wet spring...”
“Like this year.”
“Right. Maybe one year in twenty. But they are well known to my people.”
“What’s your tribe?”
“Arapaho. And some Paiute and Shoshone.”
“I g-got an eighth of Chewokee in me,” said Pissant. “B-b-but I geth it ain’t enough. Cauth I never heard about no m-m-muchrooms.”
“What are we going to do with this crazy Pollack?” Bobby said.
“Scalp him.”
“Make a lampshade out of his silly hide...”
“Yeah, light him up.”
“I ain’t no Pollack,” Pissant objected. “I’m from D-D-Dallas.”
“I don’t suppose these are the culinary variety.”
Bobby laughed. “You suppose right.” He picked up one of the caps. “You want to know why I’m here, I’ll tell you. I’m after justice, Arapaho-style, and these little muchachos are going to deliver it. These are my allies.” He paused. “Oh, I would effing enjoy killing that son of a bitch, doing to Wolfe what he did to Johnny. Withers is one seriously messed up hombre. But that would only perpetuate the cycle of violence, and also create bad karma for me, which I do not need. I have enough of my own. No, I’m here to break the chain. To cure him, if possible...”
“And if it’s not possible?”
“Then, I’ll lead him to the edge, and smile as he goes over.”
“Meaning?”
“We have a saying.… Give an evil man sufficient rope and he will hang himself, every time.”
“Hard to believe these itty-bitty mushrooms could do that. I mean, they are so tiny.”
“Size is relative.”
“What do you call them?”
“We call them … well, the English equivalent would be ‘truth serum’ or ‘truth medicine’. Don’t be fooled by their size, amigo. Trust me, the life force, or spirit power, in these mushrooms is strong beyond reckoning. Strong enough to reach down deep into a man and bring out whatever he holds in the cave of his heart, whatever may be hidden there, good or evil, darkness or light.”
“Or maybe some of both?”
“Let’s hope, for his sake, that you are right. An honest man has nothing to fear from these mushrooms.” He smiled. “I intend to partake of them, myself.” After a long silence, he added, “But I cannot do it alone, what must be done. I am going to need some help.”
“You want my help?”
Bobby nodded.
SEVENTEEN
Judging from the map on the backside of her letter, the ranch was ten to fifteen miles south of Granby, off the highway to Berthoud Pass.
On his way out of town, Tom stopped at a self-service station and was filling up his tank when a pickup appeared on the far side of the island. The driver’s face looked familiar. Tom was certain he had seen the man before. But he could not recall when or where. He studied him trying to think. “Excuse me. Say, you look familiar. Don’t I know you?”
“Yeah,” the stranger said. “You look familiar too.” Another moment and they both made the connection.
It’s the green-eyed stranger!
“Oh hey, you pulled that gorilla off of me.”
“Yes! That time at the Nugget.”
“That son of a bitch almost killed me. Did you know he broke my nose?”
“No I didn’t.”
The other man fingered his nose gingerly. “You can see it’s still red, and crooked from where he stomped on me.”
“Yeah, I can tell. Sorry about that.”
“It still hurts.”
“Shorty Dibbs.”
“That guy ought to be on a chain. He’s an animal.”
“It was a mistake to taunt him like that.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“Actually, he’s not that bad, he’s OK. Except when he drinks. Shorty can’t handle alcohol.”
“Yeah, well I don’t respect loggers. I’ve walked across too many clearcuts.”
“Never got your name.”
“Richard,” the man said. “Richard Peters. Pinecone for short.” He smiled as he extended an arm.
“Name’s Tom Lacey. Happy to know you.” The two men gripped hands.
“I never had a chance to thank you. I’m grateful. You really saved my neck.”
“Forget it. Are you with the Sierra Club?”
“Hell no. Earth First.”
“Earth First? Never heard of it. What is that?”
Tom listened while the man talked about radical environmentalism, first in general terms, then, about a place called Bowen Gulch. He was passionate. “There’s going to be a big timber sale over there.”
“I know.”
“You do? How?”
>
“I’m part of the crew that going to log it.”
“Really? Have you seen it?”
“No. Not yet.”
Pinecone explained that Bowen Gulch had originally been part of the proposed Never Summer Wilderness. “Only they excluded it because of heavy lobbying from the timber industry. The politicians adjusted the line before the wilderness bill made it out of committee. They shafted us again. Happens every time.”
“So what do you intend to do about it?”
“Stop the sale. Whatever it takes. That’s why I’m here.” A wry smile appeared on his face. “I’ve been busy, doing some leg work.”
Tom knew better than to ask. “Well, you better get a move on. You’re running out of time. We are supposed to start logging up there, next week. For sure by next Thursday. Maybe as soon as next Wednesday morning.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure? How do you know?”
“I got it straight from the operator, Jacques St. Clair. He’s my boss.”
“Damn.” Pinecone was plainly distressed. There was a pause. “Tom, what are you doing, right now? This minute.”
“I’m headed out of town. It’s my day off.”
“Before you go why don’t you come with me. To a meeting…”
Tom did not like the sound if it. He hated meetings, which he always found boring, like being in class. “Nah. I’m due down the road.”
“There will be people from all over the state, including some really interesting folks I’d like you to meet. It won’t take long. Come with me. It will probably only last about an hour.”
“Well, I...”
“Hey, it’s not far. It’s only a few minutes away. Follow me. I’m headed over there, right now. The meeting’s supposed to start at eleven a.m.”
“Hell. OK. Why not?”
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