Dance of the Winnebagos

by Ann Charles

  The beagle bared its teeth and growled up at her. She wrinkled her upper lip and growled back.

  Curbing a smile, Mac glanced away. The dog wasn’t the only one with a quirk.

  As he brushed the sand off the front of his shirt, she withdrew a collar, still attached to a leash, from her pocket. Clutching the dog to her chest, she struggled to slip the collar over its head. Nailing Jello to a wall would have been easier.

  “Uhh, Claire ...” He reached awkwardly toward the dog. “You want some help?”

  At her nod, Mac stepped closer and took the collar. “You hold his head and I’ll slip it on.” His knuckles rubbed down the front of her jean jacket as he slid the nylon over the beagle’s head. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he muttered as he tightened the collar a notch, feeling like a teenager pinning a corsage on his prom date’s dress.

  She let out a husky chuckle, her eyes flirting. “Next time buy me dinner first.”

  With his cheeks warm, Mac retreated to safety—his pickup. He crossed his arms, leaned against the bed, and tried to act like he hadn’t just felt her up.

  As Claire put the dog on the ground, a coyote howled off to the south. Judging from the decibel level, Mac guessed it was in the next valley over. Claire peered into the shadows around them, appearing more wary than fearful.

  “What are you doing out here?” Mac asked.

  “Walking Henry.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Who?”

  “Henry Ford, my grandfather’s dog.”

  Mac grinned. “That’s his name?”

  “Yep. Gramps’s last name is Ford, so he named the dog ‘Henry’ after one of his idols.”

  Seemingly oblivious to being the topic of discussion, Henry waddled over to a barrel cactus at the shadow’s edge and began sniffing its base.

  Mac lifted an eyebrow, turning back to Claire. “You’re walking your grandfather’s dog at ten-thirty at night?”

  She shrugged. “He’s allergic to the sun.”

  Sure he was. “Is that the story you’re sticking with?”

  That brought her gaze up to his in a flash. She stared at him, as if she was weighing something behind her dark eyes. Then she smiled. “You win. My grandfather kicked Henry and me out of the Winnebago for a few hours. He’s entertaining a lady friend.”

  Mac was having problems taking his eyes off her mouth. She had a nice smile, the kind that radiates a glow on moonless nights. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  He frowned, not used to having his actions questioned. “I was working.”

  “At ten-thirty at night?”

  She had spunk. He liked that in a woman—along with curves. And boy, did she have curves. “How was your first day on the job?”

  “Not bad. I made a new friend.”

  “Really?” He wondered if she was referring to the lady with the purple afro, florescent blue eye shadow, and ruby spandex pants who’d checked into the campground earlier in the afternoon. She couldn’t have been a day under seventy-five.

  Claire nodded. “She’s fifteen going on twenty, filled to the brim with rebellion and hormones, and determined to teach me how to make my lips irresistible to every man in this county.”

  They were nice lips. Full, kind of heart-shaped, pinkish in the glow cast from the pickup’s dome light. But not irresistible. His gaze moved back to her eyes. “Sounds like you met my cousin, Jess.”

  “I think she’s attached herself to me.” She opened her jacket and pointed to her ribs. Her hand bumped what looked like a white stick jutting out from the waistband of her pants and knocked it to the ground between them.

  Mac snatched it up before she could. “What’s this?”

  “Nothing.” She grabbed for it, but he held it just out of reach.

  “Then why do you want it back so badly?”

  “I don’t. It’s just a stick—of sorts. I picked it up back by the stream. Henry likes to play fetch.”

  Judging from the texture and weight, it wasn’t a stick, but a bone. But why was she carrying a bone around under her coat? “If it’s just a stick, why do you care if I look at it?”

  “You promise not to laugh?”

  Now he really wanted to know. He nodded.

  “It’s a human leg bone.”

  He lifted an eyebrow and grinned. “Is it Santa Anna’s?” he asked, referring to the infamous Mexican general who’d lost his leg during the Pastry War with the French.

  “No, wise guy. Santa Anna lost his right leg below the knee. This is a femur.”

  She knew her Mexican-American history. Impressive for a non-local.

  Mac ran his fingers over the hard surface. It looked like hundreds of other bones he’d seen scattered throughout the desert. “So it is.” He handed it back to her.

  Claire slipped it inside her coat. “Henry found it yesterday while Gramps and I were ... um ... out here hiking.”

  Mac doubted she was just hiking. It was more likely she’d ignored the No Trespassing sign and slipped into the mine to explore. A gaping hole in a hillside usually lured teenagers and tourists like a Vegas neon sign. That might explain the cigarette butt with red-lipstick smeared on it that he’d found earlier in the mine.

  “Do you have any idea whose bone it is?” Claire asked. “Has anyone from around here disappeared in the last ten or twenty years? Have you seen any other bones in this area?”

  Mac chuckled and shook his head, leaning back against his pickup.

  She continued without taking a breath. “Henry dug this up from somewhere right around here. He was only gone—”

  “Do you realize what state you’re standing in?” He said, cutting her off. The woman needed to breathe before she hypoventilated.

  Her brow wrinkled. “Of course I do.”

  “Do you have any idea of the history of this area?”

  “I took a class on Southwest U.S. history a few years ago. Why?”

  “Because you’re standing on land that used to be Apache territory. I’m not sure what exactly they taught in your class, but Apaches didn’t like strangers on their land.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve read more Louis L’Amour westerns than you have fingers and toes. He made it crystal clear what Apaches were like. What’s your point?”

  She read westerns? He’d grown up reading them. Miss Claire Handywoman was growing more interesting by the moment. “These hills are littered with bones. You could be holding the femur of some foolhardy pioneer shortcutting across Apache land on his way to Sutter’s mine in California. Or some outlaw riding through these hills to outrun a U.S. Marshal. It could even belong to some Spanish monk who came to civilize the natives and search for Coronado’s gold.”

  He paused to see if she understood what he was trying to tell her. She stared back with her lips pursed and her chin lifted.

  “My point is,” Mac continued, “if you think you’re on the way to solving some great mystery, you’re wasting your time. There are just too many bodies buried in this land.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “If you want to keep digging around here for more bones,” Mac could tell she wasn’t going to listen to reason, “that’s your choice. But don’t count on the local sheriff to help you out. He won’t blink twice at old bones—unless you find a complete skeleton.”

  Mac climbed into his pickup. “And I don’t have time to play Sherlock Holmes with you.” He had enough on his hands with Ruby’s dilemma. Without another word, he shut the door.

  Claire rapped on his window and mimed rolling it down. He lowered it halfway.

  “I didn’t plan to ask for your help, or the local sheriff. He’d probably confiscate the bone and I’d never see it again. I just wondered if—” Her body jerked to the right suddenly. “Damn it!”

  “What’s wrong?” He rolled the window all the way down and leaned out to see.

  “Henry just pulled the
leash out of my hands. I gotta go.” She patted the door twice and raced off into the darkness.

  Mac stared after her. He fought the urge to help track down the dog. Common sense told him to stay put. Claire might not actually be loony, like the oddballs waltzing around Ruby’s campground, but her brain was definitely frayed around the edges.

  He turned the ignition key. The starter cranked, but the engine didn’t catch. He frowned at the gas gauge. Half a tank. He turned the key again. The starter ground, but the engine still wouldn't fire. His gut tensed. Something wasn’t right.

  He popped the hood and stepped outside. As he lifted the hood, the light under it flickered on.

  Someone had sliced all of the sparkplug wires.

  “Fuck me.”

  * * *

  Sophy blew out a lungful of smoke. The valley spilled out below her, dark as a midnight blue sea in the moonless night. Coyotes howled their lonely love songs while an owl hooted in sympathy. A cool breeze ferried their tunes across the desert floor.

  If only her ex-husband were alive to see her now. Like Joe Martino, her youth might be dead, but she wasn’t about to wither and fade away in this wasteland. Her time among the bright lights and high-rollers was on the horizon, only forty years later than Joe had promised her.

  She stubbed out the cigarette on the sole of her boot and pocketed the butt. Her heels clunked on the planks of pine spanning the rubble-filled floor as she walked through the mouth of Socrates Pit toward the black throat of the mine.

  No matter how much time she spent in these holes, the smell of damp dirt and the faint stink of mule shit combined with the thousands of tons of rock sitting over her head made her skin crawl.

  Safely out of sight, she turned on a flashlight and ducked beneath several ceiling beams that had sagged from the weight of the mountain bearing down on them for more than a century. In the main tunnel that led to the chamber she’d spent the last month excavating, she heard a clacking noise behind her.

  She stopped, her breath whisper quiet. The sound of panting reached her ears. Claws clattered on the stone floor, drawing closer.

  Whirling, she swung the flashlight beam wildly. A pair of eyes glowed in the shadows. Her gut clenched.

  A loud, high-pitched bark echoed through the tunnel.

  She gasped. “Holy Mary Mother of Pearl!” Her heart galloped like a wild mustang. It was just a dog, a beagle from the looks of it. But what was it doing out here in the middle of nowhere?

  The dog took a few steps toward her and barked again. Then it dropped onto its ass and sat staring at her with its beady black eyes.

  She snickered at it. “Look at you. I’ve seen bigger housecats.”

  The beagle cocked its head to the side.

  “Go home.” Sophy turned away and headed deeper into the mine. She stopped again at the sound of toenails clicking on the stone floor behind her. She didn’t need a dog following her, knocking her tools around, digging where she’d already dug. She pointed toward the exit. “Get outta here, ya mutt.”

  The dog dropped onto its haunches and stared at her.

  She picked up a dime-sized rock and threw it at the beagle. It leaped aside at the last moment and the stone missed its mark. The dog glared at her for a split second, then lunged, skidding to a stop about ten feet from her. It rattled out a string of yaps, its whole body shaking with effort.

  Panic tightening her chest, Sophy glanced up. How stable were the ceiling beams in this section of the mine?

  The barking stopped.

  Sophy’s ears rang. The damned dog had to go. “Shoo!” She rushed the mutt, waving her arms at it. “Get on out of here, you little varmint.”

  With a yip, the dog raced back toward the entrance, barking over its shoulder every few feet. When it reached the planks leading out of the mine, it turned and squared its body, growling at her.

  “Go home, ya little shit!” Sophy picked up another rock and threw it. The dog yelped as the stone struck with a muffled thump. She scooped up more.

  “Henry!”

  Sophy froze, rocks clutched in her fingers.

  The female voice had been faint, but loud enough to be heard over the racket the dog was making. She raced to the entrance, skirting the growling mutt, and peeked out over the tailings, searching the valley floor for a beam of light in the darkness.

  Not fifty feet below, off to the left of the trail leading up to the mine, she caught the pale glow of a flashlight bouncing through the brush.

  Oh, Jesus! Someone was coming.

  She had to get rid of the dog. His barks were like goddamned air horns. “Here doggy, doggy,” she whispered, pulling a package of beef jerky—her supper—from her pocket.

  * * *

  “Henry!” Claire yelled again as she stood at the bottom of a huge pile of gravel and rock. She pressed against the stitch in her side and tried to catch her breath.

  The damned dog was barking somewhere above her on the hillside, but she couldn’t see further than three feet away, and her flashlight was growing dimmer by the minute. She smacked the light against her hand. It brightened, then faded.

  Henry’s barking grew frenzied. Claire’s heart beat in triple time as she strained to hear why. A loud “yip” echoed down through the valley. Silence followed.

  “Henry?” she called, hesitantly. She directed the weak flashlight beam up the hillside and scrambled around the pile of rocks toward a stand of mesquites. Her light died before she’d made it ten steps.

  “Crap.” She whacked the light against her leg, but nothing happened. “Just great.” She wondered if the other flashlight she’d seen in Mabel’s trunk had fresher batteries.

  She looked up at the stars cluttering the night sky. Without the moon’s light, she’d have to wait until her eyes adjusted before taking another step.

  Nibbling on her knuckle, Claire filled the seconds worrying about Henry. Damn him for running off like that. Gramps was going to chew her ass royally if anything happened to his dog.

  Heading back for the other flashlight was probably the wise choice, but what if she couldn’t find her way back to this spot? If Henry was hurt, she might have only a short time to find him before he ended up being the entrée for a coyote buffet.

  Wait! Her lighter. She reached for it, then stopped midway. Frickity frack! Why in the hell had she decided to quit smoking?

  Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she heaved a sigh. She’d eat a cricket for a cigarette right about now.

  She sniffed, then sniffed again. Was that cigarette smoke? Damn, not two minutes alone in the dark and she was already hallucinating.

  A coyote howled off to her left, this one closer than the one she’d heard earlier. She held her breath, straining to hear more. The sound of more coyotes yipping and laughing in their eerie, human-like tones echoed through the valley.

  Claire peered up the steep slope. Henry was up there somewhere and she needed to find him quick. She wished to God he’d let out another bark. “Henry?” she yelled again.

  Silence.

  That stupid dog was going to get them both killed. She started up the steep slope on all fours. A rustling sound in the brush behind her stopped her short.

  Twigs snapped.

  Something was coming for her.

  Something big.

  Heart pounding in her ears, Claire pulled out the bone that had landed her in this whole sorry mess and wielded it like Excalibur.

  She waited, teeth gritted, ready for battle.

  Chapter Five

  “Is that a bone in your hand?” Mac asked, stepping out through the brush, flashlight in hand.

  Claire squinted, shielding her eyes from the bright light.

  “Or are you just happy to see me?”

  “Jeez, Mac!” She plopped down before her knees gave out. The gravel dug into her ass. “We need to quit meeting like this.”

  “Where’s the dog?”

  “Up there somewhere.” She pointed up the hillside with the bone. “I he
ard him barking like a cornered seal about five minutes ago.” Although Henry had been too quiet for comfort since then.

  “The coyotes are just over there.” He motioned with the light toward the opposite side of the valley. “If you don’t find him soon, you’d better hope he’s half greyhound.”

  Claire rose to her feet, absently rubbing her backside as she stared at Mac. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need a lift. Someone sliced the wires to my sparkplugs.”

  No shit. “Who’d you piss off?”

  “It was probably just some kids out messing around on a Saturday night.” He shrugged it off.

  “Does that happen a lot in your line of work?”

  “Let’s just say my insurance agent sends me a personalized Christmas card every year.”

  What in the world did this man do for a living? More importantly, “What were you doing out here tonight?”

  He took his time answering. “Like I said before, working.”

  “Are you trying to be mysterious on purpose, Mac, or is it just part of your charm?”

  “Neither.” He shined the light up the hillside. “We’d better find your dog before the coyotes do.” As if on cue, several high-pitched yips and then one long howl echoed through the valley.

  “Smooth segue.” She knew a polite “it’s none of your business” when she came across one. She stuffed the bone back in her waistband and waved for him to go first. “You lead, I’ll follow.”

  Five minutes later, Mac paused on the deer trail they’d found a short distance up the slope and waited for her to close the fifteen feet separating them. “You gonna make it?” he asked.

  Claire shot him a warning glare, then huffed on up to him.

  Five minutes after that, Claire fell. Mac slid back down ten feet of gravel tailings—a shortcut—to take a look at the scrape on her palm. “I told you to watch out for those broken boards. You’re lucky you didn’t break your ankle.”

  He shined the light on her open hand, grimacing at the scrape. His touch was surprisingly gentle for as rough as the pads on his hands felt. She inhaled sharply as he prodded around the scratch, and noticed how earthy he smelled—like a breath of warm, desert air.