Skin Dancer
For Ron O'Gorman
Â
By
Â
Carolyn Haines
Â
Copyright © 2011 by Carolyn Haines
Â
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Carolyn Haines.
Â
Cover art by Stephanie Ryan
Â
Â
Â
With each book, I meet the most incredibly generous people who willingly give their time, talents and resources to help me tell my stories. This book is no exception.
First I want to thank Patsy Kringel, research associate, and Colleen Kirby, assistant state librarian, at the South Dakota State Library in Pierre. These two professionals helped me with details of a region I've always lovedâbut never lived in. They went way above the call of duty with insight and suggestions. Any mistakes are mine alone.
Thanks to Ron O'Gorman for his fine editing eye and surgical skill at cutting out dead wood.
Marian Young, my agent, is the best. No writer could ask for better representation.
SKIN DANCER has given me the chance to work with a story in a completely different way. I want to thank Stephanie Ryan for the artistic vision of the book cover. She loved the story from the very beginning. And Daryl Marcus, who took the typed word and gave it wings by changing it into electronic format and helping me set up for a print version. These two are part of 365scribes, a group I'm working with that's devoted to bringing author's beloved backlists back to the readers plus creating new titles.
I hope all who read this will let me know their thoughts. My web site isÂ
www.carolynhaines.com
and the remarkable Priya Bhakta has created a Facebook site for this book. It's hard to get a writer out of the South, but if I could spend a summer anywhere, it would be in South Dakota. The land there simply speaks to me.
Â
Â
Â
The sharp tang of burning spruce scented the cool night. Hank Welford squatted beside the campfire, patiently waiting for the coffeepot to finish percolating.
“My flight out is at six tomorrow. You sure we'll bag my moose by then?” the man reclining on an expensive sleeping bag asked.
Hank glanced at Ashton Trussell, a Boston plastic surgeon who'd come to Criss County, South Dakota, to take home a trophyâan animal not even native to the area. The man had plenty of money and no ethics about how he got his moose. He was the perfect client for Hank, who had a great need for money and no ethics about how he staged a kill.
“I'm sure.” He used an old shirt to grab the hot handle of the coffeepot as he removed it from the flames. “Want a cup?”
“I brought something to help pass the night.” The doctor leaned over to his fancy bag and pulled out a bottle of Courvoisier.
Hank passed him a tin cup filled with the strong brew. The doctor poured a good measure of the liquor into his cup, recapped the bottle, put it away, and leaned back.
“How long have you been leading these hunting parties into the Black Hills?” Trussell asked.
“A long time.”
“You ever been caught?”
“Nope.” Hank had been lucky. And careful. All it would take to put him out of business was getting busted by the game warden. Jake Ortiz didn't mess around with illegal hunters. He pressed for the heaviest fine, including taking the hunter's weapons, vehicles, and equipment. Canned hunts could also carry a prison term, depending on the judge and jury.
It hadn't always been that way in Criss County, but it was now. Jake Ortiz acted like he was the damn sheriff when it came to enforcing laws. “Don't worry, Doc, you'll get your moose and be gone before anyone knows we're here.”
“Good. I got enough trouble right now. I don't need a hunting citation.”
Hank glanced at the man's diamond Rolex, his five hundred dollar hunting clothes, and his expensive Remington. So what if he was caught? He'd pay the fine and buy more equipment. Trussell was a plastic surgeon in Bean Town. He made more in a day than Hank made in a month.
“Once the head is mounted, Zell's will ship it to you.” Hank sipped his coffee and sat back on a felled tree. Trussell could mount the head on his wall and tell whatever story he liked about how he shot it.
They were still two miles from Dixon Point where the moose was hobbled and waiting. The whole campâout and hunt was an exercise in vanity for the doctor, who wanted to pretend that he was actually tracking an animal. Hell, he couldn't find his ass with both hands.
“Well, I'm going to turn in.” Trussell set his empty cup in the dirt.
“Me, too.” Hank stood up to kick out the fire when a stick snapped in the woods. He paused, foot raised. He'd spent most of his life in the wilderness, and his survival instinct was well honed. Few creatures warned of their presence. He returned to his seat, listening.
The fire crackled brightly, and he leaned back against the tree. Overhead, the stars were brilliant. He'd never been out of South Dakota. Never seen a reason to go elsewhere, even for a visit. He had everything he needed right where he was.
The sound of something moving through the underbrush outside the illumination of the campfire made him sit up. This wasn't right. Animals weren't drawn to fire, they avoided it.
“What's that?” Trussell asked.
Hank decided to have a little fun. A campfire tale for the doc to take home. Folks liked a hint of danger, as long as it wasn't real. “Probably nothin'.” He paused. “But there have been several reports of strange goings on up here in the wilderness.”
“What kind of âgoings on'?” Trussell asked.
“The local Indians believe there's a spirit that lives out here, a brave who killed animals for their skins and wasted their meat. Sort of a Injun trophy taker, if you get my drift.”
Hank bided his time, waiting for the next snap of a limb. “The story goes that he got a curse laid on him. His skin fell off, and he had to go around borrowing skin from other people.” He hadn't thought of the story in twenty years. Now, though, he could tell it was working on Trussell. He'd get his money's worth.
“That's some tale. Does it scare many of your clients? A ghost that borrows skin.” Trussell was trying to sound bored.
“I guess borrowing ain't exactly the right word, since the Injun never returns it. He uses it for a time, then it sloughs off and he has to hunt for anotherâ¦donor.”
“Stow the bullshit ghost stories. I'm not interested.”
“Hey, I'm just passin' on some local tales. Some folks enjoy a few campfire legends.” He shifted around the fire, kicking dirt onto the embers. He hated to lose the warmth because the night had grown cold, but it was close on to midnight, and if he intended to get the good doctor up and moving by dawn, he needed some shut eye.
“Sounds more like you're trying to scare me.” Trussell rolled over in his sleeping bag. “It won't work. Good night, Welford.”
Hank grunted. The doc was right. Time for bed.
The flames fought against the dirt he kicked over them, finally suffocating. In the sudden blackness, he sensed movement to his right. He turned slowly, trying unsuccessfully to pierce the darkness with his gaze. Something moved. Something big.
He thought of bear and felt a whisper of fear. Most of the wild animals stayed away from humans. The truth was, he and other hunters had done their best to eradicate the bear and mountain lion population. They'd worked on the gray wolves, too, when no one was looking. Still, it could be that one of the predators had smelled them and come for a closer look.
Whatever moved in the treeline had no fear of them. It made no effort to be quiet.
The wind gusted and Hank heard a sound that made every hair on his body stand at attention. The gentle chatter of a bone rattle sizzled on the wind. “Fuck,” he whispered.
“That's not an animal.” Trussell unzipped his sleeping bag and sat up.
“Somebody's tryin' to scare us.” Hank reached for his gun. As his fingers curled around the perfectly balanced weapon, he felt better. Some joker didn't realize how easy it was to get shot in the Black Hills on a dark night.
Beneath the rhythmic rattle of the bones was another sound, a soft chanting. Hank had gone to a few of the reservation powwows on grammar school trips, and he'd always been amused by the Sioux link to the other world, the belief in spirit journeys and the dancing and chanting ceremonies. About like prayingânot much good except for wearing blisters on knees. Hank believed in a god that helped men who helped themselves.
“Hey! Cut it out! Whoever you are, beat it!” Hank yelled. So far, he and Trussell had done nothing illegal. They were carrying highâpowered hunting rifles, but there was no law against that. They hadn't killed anything, so if it was the game warden having a joke at their expense, now was the time to get him to show his face.
The low chanting and the clatter of the bones in the hollowed gourd continued unabated. With the wind blowing, Hank couldn't tell how far away the sound might be coming from. He dug the flashlight out of his pack and swung the high beam into the treeline. Shadows leapt in all directions, and his finger tightened on the trigger of his gun.
There was nothing to shoot. The night was empty.
“What's going on?” Trussell asked.
Hank kicked the dead fire hoping for a burning ember, but the dirt had completely snuffed it out. “I've got to get some dry wood. We need some light.”
He followed the flashlight beam to the edge of the woods before he realized the chanting and the rattle had stopped. The wind whispered among the fir fronds, a soft sigh of nature.
“It stopped,” Trussell said.
“Yeah.” Hank checked his watch. In less than twentyâfour hours, the doc would be on a plane headed back to Boston and his titâplumping, fatâsucking practice. And Hank would have the ten grand he needed to pay off the overdue bills on his fourâwheel drive and his manufactured home.