The possibility made his blood boil.
Jacques struggled to clear his head. He knew he would have to get a grip to salvage the situation. He began to review in his head the list of things he needed to accomplish, next day. It was a chore just sorting and prioritizing.
Number two on the list was to arrange rental terms for two replacement skidders, assuming he could locate a dealer. Before leaving Granby, he had phoned his usual contact in Denver, only to receive more bad news. The agent presently had no skidders available. Worse, the man did not know of any other dealers in Denver who did. Jacques would have to shop around.
There was also a third pot-boiler, regarding payroll withdrawals for workmen’s compensation and state disability insurance. The phrase used by the state in its recent letter was “certain irregularities,” words with an ominous ring. For weeks, Jacques had put off the matter. Dealing with state finaglers was far down his list, certainly not his favorite pastime, but since he was going to be in Denver, anyway, he had put through a call to the state office and set up an appointment. After some haggling, they agreed to meet with him, on short notice. The conference was set for 9:00 a.m. in the morning. How that would go was anybody’s guess.
The boss dreaded the rendezvous with state bureaucrats even more than his troubles with W-P.
Based on past experience, Jacques was convinced that the state bureaucrats were a bunch of cynical bastards. How they loved to dicker with a man. The bureaucrats could drive an operator to drink with their high-handed attitude. The rules changed so often that a man could never be sure, from one month to the next, whether he was still in business or in hock. They administered the rules so arbitrarily that you never knew where you stood. And there was no appeal, the state boys were classic turf-lords, a fiefdom unto themselves. Answering to no one, they took positive delight in burying a small operator under a mountain of regulations and red tape, that is, when they were not taxing him to death, driving him into chapter eleven. As if the IRS were not bad enough.
If it isn’t one thing, it’s another...
For five years running, Right of Way Inc. had been audited by federal revenuers. To protect themselves Jacques and his brother Paul had been forced to hire a part-time accountant, even though they believed that the size of their company did not warrant such an outlay. Five years in a row the accountant’s fees had nearly matched their federal tax. Not to mention the inconvenience and the increasing portion of their time and energy that was consumed with federal bullshit; whether filling out endless forms in triplicate or making redundant phone calls.
This sort of busy work always gave Jacques a helpless feeling, as if he were drowning in a sea of red ink.
Well … Isn’t it the truth!?
At times, he suspected that the feds and state bureaucrats were in cahoots. In the end, what could a working-man do about their legal chicanery?
Not a thing! Except write your crooked congressman and, in the meantime, bellyache while they slowly bleed us to death.
The anxiety often affected Jacques, in the grotto of his nervous stomach. His sense of helplessness was usually followed by mounting rage.
Oh why can’t they leave an honest man alone so he can make a living?
Never before in his years in the woods had St. Clair faced a bottom line worst-case scenario on a job. One way or the other he had always turned a profit. The realization that Bowen Gulch might become a debacle and, quite possibly, the first major financial setback of his career, now gave him pause. Jacques shuddered as he visualized his profit margin slipping away, yes, like an August snowfield.
Merde!
Denver traffic brought him back. He steered his rig into the right-turn lane and entered the cloverleaf interchange with I-25. He was headed south into the heart of darkness – downtown.
Dusk was still a half-hour away. But the sodden sun had already slipped into the brown sludge that passed for a western sky. The Front Range was also gone from sight, concealed by the noxious crud. Lights were winking on across the Mile High skyline. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper.
For a moment Jacques closed his eyes and recited a silent prayer, the last part of which he modified, or rather improved with some untranslatable French.
Oh and there was another troubling matter the boss would have preferred to expunge from his thoughts; but somehow could not. The nagging possibility that he might be held up in Denver longer than expected, and be unable to return to Bowen Gulch for the start up. If he ran into any unforeseen problems in the morning...
That would not be good. But let’s not think about that, yet.
TWENTY EIGHT
A lone dot circles in the vault of sky. Soundlessly. For several seconds it disappears, lost in the blue vastness. There it is again, a winged phantom on the silent edge of a long and lazy arc. It’s a Red-tailed hawk, soaring skyward on a late afternoon thermal. The raptor’s flight is graceful, effortless. It floats as if suspended, as indeed it is, on a rising column of warm air, a sky-bound elevator. Now, its wings bob and dip, turning and wheeling about, feathers ruffling in the breeze.
The hawk catches a fresh updraft and rises fast; but its eyes remain grounded on earth far below. The hawk is on the prowl.
From this great height the view is unobstructed for many miles in every direction. Two rugged mountain ranges dominate the landscape, each glistening under a snowy white mantle. To the east is the imperious white wall of the Front Range, several of its peaks clawing more than 14,000 feet into the sky. Nearby, just ahead, lies the jumbled spine of the Never Summer Mountains, the southern extension of the Medicine Bows.
Now, the aerial hunter drifts laterally and generally southward, crossing ridge after ridge. As it does, its sharp eyes scan one alpine valley after another. Each of the forested valleys is a patchwork of unnatural disturbances. Some of the scars look recent. Several were not in evidence a few weeks before, when the hawk last passed this way on its semi-regular hunting rounds. In this high mountain fastness, where hundreds of feeder streams swollen by snowmelt come crashing down from the surrounding heights to nurse the great rivers of the continent, conifer green is giving way to ruddy brown.
Presently the hawk hears a faraway noise carried on the late afternoon breeze. It’s a low mechanical sound, faint, a distant low rumble. But the sharp-eyed hawk has no difficulty identifying the source. Far below, nearly a mile away, a tiny yellow machine crawls like a bug along the margin of an eviscerated forest. The yellow object slips from sight, hidden by a fringe of trees, then reappears and emits a tiny puff of black smoke seemingly disconnected from the sound.
Circling, the hawk studies the strange object. After awhile though, it loses interest and moves on.
Heading east, the Red-tail leaves the scars behind and passes over the north-south backbone of the Never Summers. The hawk has crossed the great divide and now soars above a wide green valley, the headwaters of the Colorado River. The valley is flanked by massive escarpments, U-shaped lesser valleys and ridges fanning out from the snowy heights. Gentler landforms attenuate the harshness of rocky uplift and ice.
The floor of the great valley is mantled by a coniferous forest that stretches unbroken, save for a few scattered lakes, occasional meadows, and outcrops. The forest remains much as the Creator made it, nearly untouched by human hands.
Presently, the Red-tail loses elevation as it glides toward its destination, a meadow not far from the great river where on innumerable previous forays the hawk has hunted up its supper. On the edge of the meadow stands a large white snag, an excellent high perch on whose skeletal limbs the hunting bird has often patiently roosted, before swooping down to snatch a tasty meal of chipmunk, ground squirrel, or jack-rabbit.
This day, however, the raptor finds that intruders have occupied its familiar hunting grounds. Intrigued, it circles, aerially detached, yet absorbed, as it studies the strange objects beneath the trees. They are alien to the native rhythms of this place.
Though fascinated, the hawk i
s not pleased by this rude entry, which has frightened away the usual game from the vicinity. The Red-tail will have to revisit other haunts before the day is through to scare up food for its hungry brood; which will mean expending more energy logging extra miles on the wing. Oh bother. The hawk turns and starts to drift down valley.
But wait.
It arcs again and spirals back. Strange pedestrian critters are moving below, hidden for the most part under cover of trees. Occasionally, one or two of them pop into view. Aha! Recognition! The Red-tail has seen these critters on many occasions and, as always, is fascinated by them. What a clumsy means of locomotion. What an awkward way to get from one place to another, staggering about like storks on ungainly hind limbs. Too bad these fur-less varmints are too big to bag. Were they a bit smaller they would be easy to catch. One of them would feed the entire brood.
But what’s this?
The hawk wheels about, circling with renewed interest. Something unusual has grabbed its attention. The creatures appear to be assembling. Six. Seven. Eight. More are coming. It’s some type of social gathering. What strange creatures they are. But what exactly are they up to?
TWENTY NINE
Dusk, Kawuneechee Valley
The men crowded around Tom’s cook fire for a humongous spaghetti feed. He had put out the word about the free meal, and when the chow was almost ready sent Pissant around camp banging on a cook pot to announce that s-s-supper was b-b-being s-s-s-served!
Almost everyone showed up, except the Preacher and Bobby Whitehorse, who thought it best to remain out of sight.
The men were not about to pass up a free meal and they brought their hunger with them. Loggers can really pack it in. The planners had hoped for as much, and made certain there was plenty to go around.
The dinner did not disappoint. The spaghetti sauce especially was a hit, and registered high praise from the men. “Mmm, great sauce,” said Sourpuss, gesturing with his fork. “What’d you put in it? Tastes kind of like mushrooms...”
“That’s right,” Tom said. “Fresh and locally picked.”
“Well, you done good. It’s dee-li-shus.”
“And good for you too. They are loaded with anti-oxidants.”
“Anti-what?” said Wolfe, sucking a noodle.
“Think vitamins,” Tom said. “Nature’s very own.” Wolfe just grunted and dipped his snout deeper in the trough. Free food met his approval under any circumstances.
Francis Delacour was a late arrival. There was some doubt whether he would show up because, although on Jacques’ orders he had parked his camper trailer at the logging camp with the crew, Francis had been spending every spare moment in town with his wife whose time was very near. The sabotage of course had changed everything. Before leaving for Denver, Jacques had charged Francis “to run a tight ship while I’m gone.” That meant spending his nights at the logging camp where he could keep an eye on the dozer and also be closer to the rest of the equipment at Bowen Gulch, which was about three miles away, up a rough logging road.
Francis shared the good news. “The flagging is done, boys,” he told them. “We start tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
“Hey wow, Bowen Gulch. I heard there’s some big-ass timber in there. We finally made the big time.”
“Yeah,” Dipstick crowed. “We gonna’ rake it in. After this job I’m going south to Mexico.”
“At’s right. Take the money and run.”
The Forest Service had done the near impossible. Incredibly, the marking crew had laid out the new shelterwood unit, both the marking and flagging, in a single day. Such rare efficiency was unfathomable.
“A minor miracle,” Francis said, “that we owe to Bill Noonan. He and the ranger ordered everyone out of the office to help, even the secretaries. The staff put in a twelve-hour day and got her done last night, sometime after dark. Noonan lit a fire under their candy asses.” This elicited laughter.
Francis also filled them in about the meeting with the company attorney, and how he had T-boned Jacques. “The boss thought he had a contract,” said Francis. “But the company lawyer blind-sided him with that escape clause. After the asshole left, though, Jacques kind of regrouped. The last thing I heard him say was: ‘Screw the bastards’!”
This drew smiles and nods of approval from the men.
At that moment, Delacour’s pager went off. “Oh hey!” he said. “That’s Rose. I got to go.” His wife apparently was starting into labor. Francis had just finished loading up his plate but set it down again in a hurry. He had not taken a bite. “I’ll grab something at the hospital.”
Before he left for Granby, though, Francis pulled Shorty aside. “See that dozer over there, Shorty?” He had him by the shirt.
Shorty nodded.
“I want you to guard it with your life. Understand?”
“OK.”
Francis hesitated, evidently not certain that he had gotten through to the man. Or maybe he just wanted to avoid a miscommunication. Shorty, after all, was not the brightest light in the West. “Repeat after me,” Francis said, “It’ll be my ass…”
“It’ll be your ass…”
Francis fingered him hard in the ribs. “Listen, wood-for-brains, if anything happens to that cat it will be your butt. Are we clear?”
“Clear, Francis, clear.”
“OK. Good.”
Francis turned to leave and said with a dismissive wave, “See all of you birds in the morning.”
“Night, Francis.”
Shorty got the message. A few minutes later he climbed up on the dozer with his chow in hand and ate his spaghetti dinner in the catbird’s seat.
The crew put away every last morsel, down to the last noodle. Not even a spoonful of sauce remained. Tom noticed Wolfe licking his fingers after wiping the pan. When the men were done, and well satisfied too, they urrped and belched their way back to their trailers.
At that point, the logging camp settled down. Things got quiet and stayed that way for the next hour.
Earlier, Tom had discussed his reservations about the mushroom caper with Bobby. It seemed a broad net just to snare one fish. “What does that make the rest of us, guinea pigs? Or collateral damage?”
“Hey, now, friend. You are thinking about this in the wrong way. All will be well. Trust me.”
Trust, however, was in short supply. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“I thought you said you did acid in college?”
“Yeah.”
“Well these mushrooms are bokou superior to LSD. They are wholly organic. Smooth as smooth can be. The cream of Mother Nature’s own sweet brew, ambrosia of the gods. As for the rest of the crew, why are you worried? These guys are about as hung down and wrung down as a man can get. There’s not one of them who won’t benefit from having his world-view expanded and his consciousness raised. Would you not agree?” True enough, Tom had to admit. But Bobby was not done yet. “Heck, their minds run in narrow grooves. They are completely predictable, creatures of habit. They talk in clichés. They think in stereotypes. Worst of all, they are boring. B-O-R-I-N-G. Sometimes I can hardly stand their stale crappola.” It was all true, every last word, so very true. “Did I miss anything? Did I leave anything out?”
“Nope. You covered it.”
“The worst thing about being hung down is you don’t even know just how wrung down you are.”
“Right. Agreed.”
“How can you think ‘out of the box’ if you don’t even know you are in one? You don’t. You can’t. That’s why we are doing these fellows a big favor. They need to have their minds blown, and opened up to a bigger reality. A few dozen of these little mushrooms should do the trick. I intend to indulge myself. Have no fear, brother. This manna came straight from heaven. Medicine for whatever ails you.”
“If it’s true, Amen to that.”
“It is oh so true, brother. Trust in the crazy wisdom of the Great Spirit.”
“OK. I’m just crazy enough to try anything once
.”
“Now you’re talking.”
But that was not quite the end of it either. Tom also had doubts about whether the active chemicals in the mushroom would survive the heat of the cook fire. It was decided to only lightly brown the mushrooms in the interest of potency, and to fold them into the sauce just before serving. Bobby contended that even if the effects were diminished by half, it would make little difference given the mushroom’s incredible power. The matter was not finally resolved until holy hell broke loose.
The next thing anyone knew, Charlie McCoy was thundering through camp. Night had fallen.
“I’m mean you!” Charlie bellowed. He had planted himself outside Wolfe’s camper and was calling the man out. “We’ve had enough of your low life bullshit!” cried Charlie. “You sick fuck! We think you’re light in the stones department! Hey, I’m talking to you in there!”
Attracted by the commotion, the loggers now gathered around. Charlie was ready for bear, his fists clenched. There was no sign of Wolfe though, until finally his head appeared in the trailer window.
“We’ll settle this, today. Here and now!” Charlie roared. Evidently he had taken upon himself the unpleasant chore of ridding camp of this no good ex-con whom everyone agreed was trouble walking. It had come to this.
Wolfe spoke not a word as he stepped down out of his trailer, his face a mask, betraying nothing, no hint of feeling, raw malice in his eyes. Tom shuddered at the sight of him. It was as the man had fallen out of an ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Tom had an intuition that Bobby was right.
He’s a cold-blooded killer alright.
“You and what army?” Wolfe whispered through his teeth. He was taller than Charlie by several inches, and outweighed him by at least twenty-five pounds. Yet, in recent days there had been talk about camp that if anybody could take Wolfe it was probably Charlie. Shorty was another possible candidate. But Shorty was streaky, at best, when it came to a fight. Charlie was a former Navy boxer and a lot tougher than he looked.
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