7 Wild East (5 page)

They talked for a moment more and then the two men with
packs turned and walked up the street. The mayor cradled what looked like two large
rocks as he watched them leave and then he walked slowly back toward the inn.
The moon was bright enough to show off his face and he looked preoccupied.
Maybe even worried.

What a strange place. He was betting that there had never
been a “for sale” sign on any building in town, and he’d noticed earlier that
the primitive buildings also lacked aerial antennas and power lines.

Thomas shrugged and returned to bed. The behavior of the
inhabitants seemed odd, but then everything about the day had been odd. He
would think about it in the morning.

*  * 
*

Anatoli waited outside Butterscotch’s cabin for the survey
team to gather. He was early since he was nervous about the project and
positive that he would be leading the team as soon as Whisky Jack failed to
show. They were wandering into Nature’s minefield, one covered in trees and
carpets of dying leaves and needles, beautiful but dangerous, especially by
night. But not as dangerous as doing nothing and letting the pipeline come
through. That would destroy everything they had worked for.

A few minutes before their appointed one o’clock rendezvous
time, Sasha and Horace arrived with the equipment they’d borrowed from the
surveyor’s room. Anatoli distributed the packs that he’d loaded with food and
supplies and each person’s personal effects. Talking in whispers and working by
flashlight, the men strapped the tripod to the outside of Anatoli’s pack and
carefully packed the theodolite inside. He’d prepared no such pack for Whisky
Jack.

Anatoli checked his watch. It was exactly one o’clock. He
was about to guide the team out of town when Whisky Jack came marching out of
the darkness with a heavy pack strapped to his back and a flashlight in his
hand.

“Well now, you boys look to be ready enough to make tracks,”
Whisky Jack observed. “What do you say we get out of town before that equipment
you’re packing goes missing?”

To Anatoli’s shock, Whisky Jack was perfectly sober. He’d
never seen Whisky Jack perfectly sober before. At best, he’d seen Whisky Jack
hard up for a drink and acting drunk out of habit. Now the man moved with
purpose and ease, in complete control of himself. Anatoli looked to Sasha and
Horace who also appeared perplexed by the man who’d strode out of the dark.

“Well I’ll be doggone,” Horace exclaimed with a subdued hoot
of surprise.

Whisky Jack had walked several steps into the darkness
before turning back to consider the rest of his team.

“All I can say is that you’d better be faster than that if
you plan on keeping up.”

Whisky Jack turned once more to go. Anatoli, Sasha, and
Horace hurriedly shrugged on their packs and rushed to keep up. They followed
the old man into the woods. Concerned they would be lost in minutes, Anatoli
referenced the surveyor’s compass and map by flashlight while stumbling down
one deer trail after another. It was soon evident that Whisky Jack knew exactly
where he was going as he led them down one cleared path after another in the
general direction of the valley for the proposed new route. All four men had
their flashlights on yet they struggled to keep up with the much older man in
the lead. Whisky Jack continued his relentless pace as if he could see in the
dark and maybe the old night owl could.

They hiked for two hours before Whisky Jack called them to a
halt in the middle of a small clearing.

“This ought to be far enough for tonight, I figure,” Whisky
Jack declared, slipping lithely out of his pack.

“Thank the heavens,” Horace declared, finding a rock to lean
up against.

“We’ll make camp here. Remember to sling all foodstuffs into
the trees out of the reach of bears. Keep your firearms beside your bags,
safeties on. I’m going out to scare up some firewood.”

To Anatoli’s surprise, Whisky Jack turned off his flashlight
and left it with his pack before slipping into the dark woods. Anatoli became
occupied with setting up camp. He didn’t notice the old man again until he
found Whisky Jack holding a match to a tower of kindling and wood. Anatoli
crouched down beside him.

“Tell me, old man. How did you guide us through the wood like
that?” Anatoli asked.

“Glow in the dark compass,” Whisky Jack replied, as if that
explained everything.

He produced the device from his pocket. Sure enough, the
dials glowed in the dark. He handed the device to Anatoli.

“Keep it for some time you need to impress a bunch of
amateurs,” Whisky Jack said.

“But the rest of it. The trails, the dark, your movements. The
drinking.”

In response, Whisky Jack tapped the side of his head.

“Crazy like a fox,” was his only explanation, then he was
gone to attend to his own camp setup.

Yep, just as I suspected, Anatoli thought. By his own
admission, the man is crazy. It just happened that this time the craziness was
useful.

*  * 
*

Pete Mitchell woke early the next morning and for a short
time wondered where he was. Though he had no idea where he was, he definitely
knew where he was not. The place he woke had wooden walls instead of being open
to the trees and sky. The place where he slept was not his sleeping bag—it was
infinitely more comfortable and didn’t have the knobs of rocks and pinecones to
have to accommodate with one’s slumbering body. The thing he was not hearing,
thankfully, was Mark’s snoring. And the thing that he smelled was not instant
eggs and tea—it was freshly brewed coffee and bacon.

Pete rose from an honest to goodness bed and swung his feet
to the cold floor. His clothes were where he’d left them the previous night,
strewn across the flat boards of a small bedroom. He’d been so exhausted, and
quite frankly drunk, that he’d barely made it to bed. It all came back to him
in a flash—he was in McIntyre’s Gulch at the local inn. That and the fact that
the surveying equipment was missing.

“The surveying equipment is missing!” Pete choked as he
jumped to his feet. For a moment, his head swam sickeningly.

Pete rushed across the room to check his pack more closely. Sure
enough, it was all gone. The tripod that had been strapped to the side of his
pack was gone, the theodolite was missing. His level and precision compass were
also amongst the things that weren’t there. Pete quickly donned his clothes and
headed downstairs to confront the culprits who had stolen his gear.

He found the Flowers dusting the tables. What he didn’t know
was that the Flowers was one of the last people in the Gulch that you wanted to
yell at, and Pete was in a yelling mood.

“You there,” he called, spotting the Flowers. “I want to
know what you’ve done with my surveying equipment, and I want to know now!”

The Flowers turned, put a hand on her hip, and gave the
stranger one of her scary glares—at least it becomes scary after you’ve gotten
to know her. She’d been worrying about her new son, Ricky, when she’d been
interrupted by the strident request. In response she let loose her worries upon
the man rather than answering his demand.

“Do you know what it’s like trying to raise a six-year-old
as an only mother?” the Flowers snapped. She added something in Gaelic.

Pete instantly sensed that he’d waded hip deep into cloudy
waters. He had no idea what the woman was talking about, but he didn’t like the
scary look in her eye. He decided to back off and take a slower tack.

“Look, lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I was
just hoping that you could help me find my missing surveying equipment.”

“When was the last time you even considered the number of
dangers to a young boy that can be found in a place like McIntyre’s Gulch, let
alone a more civilized place?”

The woman was heading toward the stairs pointing an accusing
finger. Pete stood at the foot of those stairs, but at the woman’s advance he
backed up several risers.

“Is there someone else I can talk to?” Pete stammered.

“That’s right, you men will stick together, won’t you? Try
your sad story on Big John. He’s in his office. As for me, I’m wearing a sign,
and that sign says I don’t give a.…” the Flowers began to reply before she was
interrupted.

“Judy, what’s all the shouting going on in here?” Big John
bellowed as he stormed into the room.

“You, I insist on knowing what you’ve done with my surveying
equipment!” Pete said, trying his line on Big John this time. Once again it
fell flat.

“Ach, is that all. It’s probably wherever you left it. Man,
ye shouldna drink if you canna hold yer liquor.” The Flowers said nothing about
the suddenly pronounced Scottish accent.

“I wasn’t that drunk! I brought my pack up to the room—I
know I did.”

Big John snorted and turned to leave the dining room. Pete
heard a door slam in the back behind the bar a moment later. There was just
enough room to slip by the irate mother, so he did so cautiously under the watchful
gaze of the slightly wild eyes. Opening the door to the tiny room, Pete
continued to voice his complaint, but more softly.

*  * 
*

I heard Big John talking as I approached the door to his
office and he didn’t seem happy.

Though I knew we had to be up and doing with a heart to any
fate, I had reluctantly left Chuck sleeping, an arm over his eyes with his hand
lightly clenched in a fist. It was a defensive posture, like someone blocking a
blow. It pretty much mirrored what I was feeling.

In the summer, we slept in the raw. As Chuck said, why get
undressed for bed just to get dressed again? This was very nice but partly why
I was concerned about the passing of days on the calendar. It was cooler now
and I had taken to wearing a nightgown, but that was rather closing the barn
door after the livestock had left. That didn’t mean I wanted strangers more
than my husband’s naked body.

“I’m sorry, but the plane has been grounded. It has the engine
trouble.” Big John spoke patiently, but I knew our mayor and he was annoyed.
This suggested that he had explained about the plane at least once before. Big
John hates repeating himself—unless it’s fishing stories. “And as I explained
before, we have nae telephones and the radio is broken. Ye must bide in patience
a wee while.”

The main question was who he was addressing, the Mountie or
the surveyor, who might hereafter be known as the Dirt if he was the one
bothering our mayor. I was leaning toward the surveyor. I didn’t think young
Thomas was the kind who needed to be told things twice.

I knocked once on the door and then entered. I won the bet
with myself. It was the surveyor who was ruining Big John’s morning. I guess
that was to be expected once he found his equipment gone.

“Good morning.”

“No, it is not a good morning,” Pete said, swinging around
to face me. His eyes were bloodshot and I was betting he had a bad headache.
The hooch takes people that way. “This—this man says there are bear tracks all
around the inn.”

“The
man’s
name is John McIntyre and he is our mayor
and your host. And there are bear prints. I saw them on the way in.”

Pete looked taken aback.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Go look for yourself.”

“And I suppose the bears snuck into my room and stole my
survey equipment!”

“Careful,” I cautioned, in no mood for a brawl. I don’t
believe in shooting the messenger for bringing bad news, but there was no
denying that Pete, the Dirt, wasn’t on my list of favorite people that morning.
“Was it in your room? Or did you leave it on the porch? The bears might have
taken something if there was any food left in the pack. Was there?”

I could see from Pete’s face that there had been.

“Yes. It would be best to be sure of your facts before
accusing someone of stealing,” said a voice behind me.

I turned to see Officer Merryweather, all spruced up and
looking official. I managed not to groan, but just barely. I could see that Big
John was also something less than thrilled to have another body in his office.
He was probably wishing that he had joined the survey team.

“Good morning,” I said again. “I’ve come to see if you would
like to have breakfast with Chuck and me. But first, Pete Mitchell, meet Officer
Merryweather of the RCMP. Pete Mitchell is a surveyor with the SGB.”

I hadn’t come to the inn for that reason, but I lie well when
it is expedient and removing young Thomas from Pete’s general vicinity seemed
like a good idea, especially since I heard the Flowers slamming cupboard doors
in the kitchen and knew she was angry.

Thomas nodded politely. The surveyor didn’t. I thought of
the old adage about good manners costing nothing and I was willing to bet that
young Thomas had been raised with that one too.

“I would be honored to break bread with you, whenever you
are ready to go,” Thomas said at last. He was much more self-possessed and I
wasn’t certain if that was an entirely good thing.

“I’m ready.”

The surveyor was fuming but silent.

“Sir,” Thomas said to the surveyor, “I was on that plane
yesterday and it was the most harrowing experience of my life. We had an engine
cutting out through the entire flight. No sane person would get in that crate
until it is overhauled. Frankly, I can’t believe that it meets federal aviation
safety standards.”

With that he turned and strode off. I hurried to catch up.

“This way,” I said as we left the inn, though there was only
one way to go.

“Those are bear tracks?” Thomas asked, pointing at the
ground.

“Yes.” Rather sloppy ones left by a blurred cast by men
working in the dark.

He looked thoughtful at this news instead of apprehensive.
The expression worried me.