by Neil Mcmahon
But I did believe in an immense, mysterious machine of fate that ultimately exacted true final justice, that couldn’t be swayed by influence peddling and didn’t accept get-out-of-jail-free cards, and that kept track of who owed what right down to the molecule.
I had to think that everybody involved in these events had undergone a serious shake-up of their bank balances, for better or worse.
SIXTY-SEVEN
I’d called Madbird earlier to tell him I was temporarily off the hook, and he’d said he’d swing by. When I rode back into my place toward dusk, he was sitting on my steps drinking a Pabst. There were a couple of empties beside him along with a bag of store-bought ice. He fished in that, pulled out a fresh one, and tossed it to me. If he guessed where I’d been, he didn’t say so.
I sat down beside him, opened the beer, and took a long, long drink.
Before we had a chance to say a word, the black tomcat came stalking into view and started yelling at me for being gone so long and letting strangers come on his turf. He’d probably heard the popping sound of the can’s top and was running a guilt trip on me to score some brew for himself. Madbird crumpled an empty can in his fist, folding up the edges to make a crude saucer. He set it on the steps and poured a little beer in. The cat sniffed it, tasted it, sneezed, then started lapping it up. Bits of hay and leaves clung to his fur, and a raw red patch was scabbing over behind his left ear.
Madbird leaned back against the wall. He looked relaxed, like this was Friday afternoon after work and we were talking about maybe going fishing tomorrow.
“Hey,” he said, and gave my boot a kick. “When that John Doe fuckwad had the gun on you back there at the camp—you didn’t really think I’d sold you out, did you?” His teeth showed just slightly, in the beginnings of that grin.
My face got warm and my gaze shifted away. I reached down to scratch the base of the cat’s bent tail. He arched his rump against my hand, but kept slurping busily.
“I guess I did,” I admitted.
Madbird nodded approvingly. “You’re picking up them Indian lessons pretty good.”
That was about as pleasing a compliment as I’d ever gotten.
Overall, I had the sense that this was the culmination of a long series of events—that when I’d gotten my eye busted that night at Rocky Boy years ago, it had rung the death knell of the self that had lived in the familiar world of my youth, and lit the spark of another self, approaching a different world—the one where Madbird had been my guide. I’d never be at home there like he was. But I knew already that he was right about nothing ever being the same again. The immersion of the past few days had been a baptism, and the alchemy would keep working in hidden ways toward whatever came next.
I didn’t have a clue as to what it might be. But if it managed to announce itself a little more sedately, that would suit me just fine.
Acknowledgments
These were a tough call—it would be impossible to list the many people who have contributed, in ways that go back many years. I decided to err to the side of brevity. To those not specifically mentioned, my appreciation is nonetheless heartfelt.
Carl Lennertz, who allowed himself to be prevailed upon to edit this book, and—in addition to his already astonishing repertoire—demonstrated clearly that he’s a natural at that, too. Jonathan Burnham, Kathy Schneider, Christine Boyd, and Jill Schwartzman, who provided critical help. Many others at HarperCollins, including (then) Dan Conaway, whose initial support got the project off the ground.
Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, who represents me wondrously (and patiently), and her colleagues at the William Morris Agency.
Early readers, including Susan Wasson, Barbara Theroux, John Zeck, David Johnson, Jock Doggett, and a contingent of old outlaws, hippies, and below-the-radar comrades, who gave much-needed encouragement.
Tom Melton, longtime SEC trial lawyer, and Dr. Sid Gustafson, Montana horse vet extraordinaire (and novelist in his own right), for their professional expertise.
The late and truly great Jim Welch, Hank Burgess, and Gus Gardner. This involves decades-old friendships, the Montana Board of Pardons and Parole, and a naive white boy’s education in a boxing ring.
The writing communities in Montana and other places (with special thanks to those who provided quotes).
The many fine men (and a few women) I’ve worked with in construction since I figured out that I wasn’t going to medical school after all, and signed on as a union apprentice with Local 153 of the International Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners, Helena, Montana, in 1973. In particular, Kim Zupan, ex-bucking horse rider and my work partner of many years.
My, and my wife’s, families and the friends we’ve been blessed with.
And some non-friends and even enemies, from whom I’ve learned a hell of a lot.
About the Author
NEIL McMAHON was a Stegner Fellow at Stanford. The author of five novels, he is also a carpenter in Missoula, where his wife coordinates the Montana Festival of the Book.
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PRAISE FOR Lone Creek
“Put dirty jeans and a carpenter’s tool belt on Raymond Chandler’s private eye Philip Marlowe, stick him on a ranch in Montana’s back country around Helena, and you’ll get a notion of Neil McMahon’s Hugh Davoren. Lone Creek is tough, gripping, and true to the convoluted geography and personalities of the new, Old West. It has good girls and bad girls, cowboys and indians, cops and robbers—and a plot that keeps you guessing. A real page-turner written in taut, spare prose that mirrors the rugged landscape—I promise you won’t be able to put it down.”
—Annick Smith, author of In This We Are Native and
coeditor of The Last Best Place Anthology
“Lone Creek is more than a page turner. A vivid sense of place and strong narrative voice make it as big and beautiful as the Montana sky.”
—James Grippando, author of Got the Look and Last to Die
“It is a rare day indeed when it doesn’t seem either insane or hyperbolic to say that an author has just produced a book that has the authentic sound of that great American original, James Crumley, but Lone Creek fits neatly into that exalted place on a pedestal…. McMahon has now found his true voice with this splendid and suspenseful novel…. What separates this book from other outstanding crime novels is the moral might of the hero…. It is the poignant and knowing prose that elevates the novel to literature.”
—Otto Penzler, New York Sun
“McMahon is a writer and a half…his words carry for miles.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Besides being one heck of a blood-pumping read, Neil McMahon’s Lone Creek is a heartfelt meditation on love and memory, and on the powerful forces that shape both our past and our future. If you’ve ever loved a person or a place, and especially if you’ve ever lost one or the other, this bittersweet, angry, beautifully written novel will resonate with you.”
—Jenny Siler, author of Easy Money and Flashback
“Lone Creek is postmodern contemporary western noir…. A good, hard ride through real Montana, punctuated by heinous crimes and dry, good humor. Neil McMahon has written a winner.”
—C. J. Box, author of In Plain Sight and Free Fire
“Lone Creek is an explosive tale of the present-day Wild West, full of action and heartbreak and double-crosses you won’t see coming. Neil McMahon writes with eloquence and authority about this haunting landscape and the cowboy heroes who still populate it. Don’t miss this gripping saga.”
—Michele Martinez, author of Finishing School and Cover Up
“In prose as smooth as worn saddle leather, Neil McMahon’s new novel, Lone Creek, captures the old Montana verities: the days when a man’s word was his bond, the time when neighbors stood together against the forces of weather and outsiders, and when a man was judged by his good work, his bravery, and his moral character. When faced with the lies of t
he modern world, a man with these qualities doesn’t just endure, he triumphs. This is a lovely novel, smart and exciting, set in a landscape that throbs with beauty. I loved it.”
—James Crumley, author of The Last Good Kiss and The Right Madness
“Neil McMahon is [a] lifetime expert in the tranquilities and bloody-handed twists and brutalities of working-class life in the northern Rockies. And he’s one of our finest fast-action storytellers. Lone Creek will keep you up and dodging through the night, and send you to sleep with a sense of relief and pleasure. Sure worked for me.”
—William Kittredge, author of Hole in the Sky and The Willow Field
“Lone Creek is a Montana writer’s soaring tribute to the people, sorrows, and great beauty of that state. It’s also a riveting crime story, an elegy to a passing era, and an exploration of the nature of long friendship. In taut and graceful language, Neil McMahon gives us all that and makes us sorry when it’s over. A terrific read.”
—Deirdre McNamer, author of Rima in the Weeds and My Russian
“Neil McMahon’s Lone Creek runs fast and deep—a classic Montana ranch story with a ripping current of suspense. In Hugh Davoren, McMahon has created flesh and blood, and in Lone Creek he has written a smart thriller that turns its own pages.”
—Jess Walter, author of Citizen Vince and The Zero
“Neil McMahon’s new novel is rather what I imagine riding a wild horse through the Montana foothills would be like—fast, exhilarating, and dangerous. And when the hero’s trusted friend seemingly betrays him, an old nemesis transmutes into his unlikely ally, and his new lover dances him between deliverance and perdition, there’s no telling where the hero’s ride will end—but the scenery along the way will be stunning.”
—Claire Matturro, author of Wildcat Wine and Bone Valley
“Tight, taut, a place where bad money kills and the dead reach out of their graves to scar the living—McMahon’s Montana is a place Ross MacDonald’s Lew Archer would have felt right at home in.”
—Peter Bowen, author of Yellowstone Kelly and Nails
“This is the McMahon book I’ve been waiting for—a tightly paced thriller set on his home turf of Montana. Told with a voice that is both clean and edgy, Lone Creek interweaves the stories of an old mystery unfolding in the midst of a new one. Hugh Davoren, a handyman on the ranch he grew up on, finds himself on the run, framed, betrayed, and in danger of falling in love with the ghost of a young girl he once loved. When he elicits the help of his compatriot Madbird, they make for a pair of unlikely heroes who couldn’t be more likable, or more human. You won’t put this one down.”
—Claire Davis, author of Winter Range and Labors of the Heart
“His finest achievement to date…. Beautifully written…. A natural storyteller, McMahon is sure to appeal to fans of James Crumley and Jim Harrison.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
ALSO BY NEIL McMAHON
Revolution No. 9
To the Bone
Twice Dying
Blood Double
Credits
Cover design by Paola Echavarria
Cover photographs: horses © Eastcott Momatiuk/Getty Images; sky © Matthias Clamer/Getty Images
Copyright
LONE CREEK. Copyright © 2007. by Neil McMahon. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2008 ISBN: 9780061847165
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