7 Wild East

by Melanie Jackson

  “So, you seem kind of distracted today,” Chuck observed. “What’s weighing so heavily on your mind?”

  “Oh, it’s this test I’ve got to take to renew my pilot’s license,” the Wings explained. “Hey, would you pass me that spanner over there.”

  Chuck handed the Wings the greasy tool and then had to resist the urge to rub his hand on his pants.

  “Why would any flying test make you nervous? You should pass it with flying colors.”

  “It’s just that I haven’t studied the rules and regulations in years. I’m nervous that I’ll do something or say something wrong and fail. I’m telling you, if I don’t pass this test, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “If you don’t pass this test, I don’t know what McIntyre’s Gulch is going to do,” Chuck countered.

  Chuck would have supplied more words of support, but at this point in their conversation he was distracted by the sight of a Mountie strolling his way from the nearby terminal attired in full dress uniform. The man carried several bags with him hanging from every limb, some of the bags even rolled on wheels, but the excess luggage didn’t seem to encumber his movements. This didn’t prevent Chuck from having concerns about whether the luggage would fit in the plane.

  The new Mountie’s uniform was spotless. He was tall, strong, and even good looking. Chuck’s hopes of a successful and maybe even an enjoyable training session rose at the sight of the stalwart recruit. Most important to Chuck, the man was spot on time.

  “You must be Thomas Merryweather,” Chuck said while stepping forward and extending his hand.

  “And you must be Senior Inspector Goodhead,” the Mountie returned, dropping a couple of his bags to accept the handshake.

  The man wore a broad smile and his handshake was firm and confident. He was young, maybe in his late twenties. He had short cropped blond hair from what Chuck could see around the hat and a neatly trimmed blond mustache.

  “Hello, Tom. And you can call me Chuck.”

  “I’d prefer it if you call me Thomas. The boys in the schoolyard used to call me Tom. It haunts me to this day. And I’ll be calling you Senior Inspector for the time being, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all, Thomas,” Chuck said, developing his first inklings of concern regarding the welcoming the young Mountie was going to receive when they made it to McIntyre’s Gulch. “So, tell me, where are you from?”

  “Winnipeg, born and bred,” Thomas replied proudly.

  Chuck had expected the lad to mention some backwoods berg. Instead the kid was a bona fide city boy, born and bred. And proud of it to boot. Good Lord, Chuck thought, they’re going to eat him alive in the Gulch. The Mountie rummaged his scattered thoughts for some way to make the encounter easier for the recruit but realized that getting through it on his own would probably be the most important part of his training if he was serious about being assigned to the outback. Meanwhile, the Wings had stopped working on the engine and was clearing his throat loudly to remind Chuck that he had yet to be introduced.

  “Thomas Merryweather, I’d like you to meet Danny Jones-McIntyre, more commonly referred to as the Wings.”

  “Hi, Tom,” the Wings said, extending a greasy hand.

  Chuck didn’t blame Thomas for looking doubtfully at the Wings’ grease-streaked hand rather than soiling his manicured fingers by shaking. He did think that the initial verbal exchange could have been handled better though.

  “Please, call me Officer Merryweather,” Thomas corrected. “You must be the pilot. I’d now like to check your pilot’s license, the latest safety report for your craft, and your flight plan before we take off.”

  “Excuse me?” the Wings replied.

  “That won’t be required, Thomas,” Chuck intervened. “I already took care of reviewing his papers while we were waiting.”

  “Are you suggesting I don’t know my job?” the Wings asked indignantly, refusing to let the issue pass.

  The two men stood erect gritting their teeth and considering one another. Rather than interfere, Chuck opted to stand back and see how the kid handled himself in a tense situation. As it turned out, he didn’t handle himself well.

  “I don’t know you, Mr. Wings. How could I possibly know whether you know how to do your job or not?”

  “Maybe my twenty years spent flying this particular route should have been considered first,” the Wings suggested.

  Another silence fell between them. Chuck took the opportunity to address an important issue that needed to be resolved before they climbed on the plane.

  “You know, Thomas, I’m certainly one to respect the uniform, but in this case, full dress may be a little overwhelming for where we’re going.”

  “You’re suggesting that I dress down for my first encounter with the citizens of an outback town?”

  “He’s suggesting that you don’t look like a daft prick,” the Wings corrected.

  Again there was silence and tension as the two men observed each other.

  “I passed a restroom while I was walking through the terminal. Perhaps I’ll go back and change,” Thomas suggested.

  “That would be best,” Chuck agreed.

  “Don’t rush back,” the Wings added.

  The recruit lowered the remainder of his bags to the tarmac. He selected one duffel from the large pile, lifted it, and turned to return to the terminal. Of course, he saluted Chuck and awaited a returning salute before leaving.

  “What a jerk,” the Wings commented as Thomas walked away. “You know, he’s going to get crucified when we get him to the Gulch.”

  “Yes, I’m fully aware of that and more shame to all of you,” Chuck replied. “Let’s load his bags while we’re waiting.”

  “Is all his luggage going to fit?” the Wings replied, mirroring Chuck’s own concerns on the subject. “I have supplies to fly in too.”

  The two men had the luggage packed by the time Thomas returned. The recruit was wearing yet another pristine uniform, this one the traditional green of the working Mountie. He returned with the duffel he’d taken but also had a garment bag draped over a shoulder. The Wings snickered when he saw Thomas coming.

  “One more thing, Wings,” Chuck interrupted. “I’d like this to be a nice peaceful flight.”

  “What are you suggesting?” the Wings countered.

  “Let’s just say that I know what you’re thinking, but I’ll remind you that I’ll be on this flight as well and there are limits to what my stomach can take. How about we don’t have an engine failure this time?”

  “I understand, boss,” the Wings replied with a wink.

  Chuck was doubtful that the Wings fully understood his wishes—or that he would honor them—and he felt a little depressed as he climbed into the passenger seat of the plane. It was going to be a long, awful flight.

  * * *

  Ricky, a child of no more than six, slunk through the woods at the outskirts of the town of McIntyre’s Gulch on a mission. Within his rich imagination, he was Officer Ricky Jones, the latest recruit into the RCMP and new partner of Inspector Charles Goodhead. But now he was on a solo assignment to clean up a gang of terrorists who had set up camp in the outskirts of town. He carried a large tree branch with him which in his mind was a high-powered rifle needed to defend both himself and the citizens of the land he’d sworn to protect.

  Ricky slithered through the undergrowth and took up position behind a large pine where he could easily observe what was going on in town. He watched as Butterscotch led two strangers, one limping badly, from the Bones’ office toward the pub. He reached into his back pocket to remove a pad of paper and a pencil, the two most important tools of a government agent, and made a note of the new arrivals. Putting his pencil and paper away, he crept closer to the shed which was his current objective.

  Sliding along the worn boards of the shed he crept toward the front door. There he prepared himself before throwing the door wide open and stepping inside.

  “Hands up, you
two. You’ve been nabbed,” Ricky announced, pointing his makeshift gun at the two suspicious-looking characters huddled within the shed.

  “Ricky, you nearly scared the daylights out of me,” Horace announced, looking up from the explosive he was working on. “And that’s not a good thing to do when someone is performing such a delicate operation.”

  “Go away before you get us in trouble with the Flowers,” Sasha announced. “We will play guns later.”

  “Man, you guys are no fun,” Ricky said disappointedly as he dropped his weapon to his side and closed the door.

  Maybe I can arrest the two new arrivals in town, Ricky thought as he slipped away from the shed to sneak across town to the Bones’ office. They hadn’t looked like criminals, who in Ricky’s experience tended to wear sunglasses and to drive large cars, but they might be secret bad guys. He’d keep watching.

  Chapter 2

  The Flowers and I came downstairs after tucking the injured boy into bed. Mark was snoring before we had the covers pulled up over him. Either exhaustion or the Bones’ injection had knocked Mark out.

  Pete was talking happily to Big John, Wendell, and the Bones, still not grasping the fact that their fixed stares betokened not pleased admiration so much as stunned horror.

  “… so the National Energy Board hired the SGB—that’s the Surveyor General Branch—to lay the route. It would have been nice if they had decided to do this a couple months ago, but I think—the weather willing—that we will get this done. And I have to say it’s been a fascinating project.”

  I turned to the Flowers and said in English, “I bet what this man needs—aside from a shot of whisky to go with that beer—is a nice venison steak. It’s got to be hard work tramping through the wilderness for so many days.”

  Big John took the hint and reached under the bar to pull out some of his home brew as the Flowers headed for the kitchen. Big John’s hooch had about the same effect on most people as a shot of morphine.

  “Butterscotch, the Mountie comes back tonight?” Big John asked in Gaelic as he poured. “Try this. It’s something special.”

  Pete picked up the glass and sniffed suspiciously. Obviously it smelled enough like scotch to pass because he took a sip.

  “Yes and the new recruit he’s training as well. You’ll be full up here at the inn.” Big John frowned at the reminder. “What time is the meeting?”

  “Seven. We should be done before the Mountie arrives—which is a shame. He might be of some help here.”

  “I’ll talk to him right away,” I promised and then switched to English. “Sorry, working out bedroom logistics. We don’t usually have visitors and my husband’s new trainee is coming in sometime tonight. Wilderness and survival training is crucial for officers assigned to the outback.”

  Pete nodded and drained his glass. He didn’t choke but his eyes were shiny. Big John’s private stock kind of snuck up on you and coshed you over the head when you weren’t looking.

  “Now tell me more about your project,” I urged, figuring that we might as well know the full state of disaster we potentially faced. “We’ve heard nothing about it. At all.”

  Not even in Seven Forks and usually Anatoli was on top of rumors and news.

  “Well, you’ve heard of Keystone? Well, this is a similar oil distribution system that they’re looking at here. We’ve been hired to find the best route from Alberta to Illinois in the United States. There should be much less trouble for this pipeline. Fewer environmentalists out this way. Fewer people period.”

  That’s what he thought. If I knew my neighbors he had just met his Waterloo.

  Or else we had. It would be a fight to the finish.

  “But what good is a pipeline supposed to be to us?” the Bones finally asked.

  “For one thing, your property values are about to go through the ceiling. Assuming you own your property.”

  “No one exactly owns property in the Gulch. I mean, everyone agrees that the Lonesome Moose belongs to me and the Flowers,” said Big John. “But I don’t remember ever having any paper that says so.”

  “Me neither,” I agreed. “Our families have just always been here—well, since the early eighteenth century anyway. That was the original land grant. And many of our native residents have been here even longer.” I nodded at Wendell. “Several of the Broken Head clan live here.”

  That was an exaggeration but finally Pete looked uneasy. Or as uneasy as one could be when half drunk. I judged that a large meal should just about finish him off. Which was good timing. The clock on the wall was inching toward six.

  “We don’t know much about your town’s population. It’s just a dot on the map.”

  “Well, we’re real old fashioned here, kind of keep to ourselves.”

  “I kind of noticed that,” Pete said. “That phone over there, eh. That’s a real antique. I haven’t seen a crank phone since my grandma died.”

  “Well, it still works great.” I smiled with pride and Wendell almost snorted.

  “You still use it?” He looked appalled as well as fascinated.

  “Of course. We aren’t completely backwards. How else would we talk to each other after dark?”

  “Well—cellphone?”

  “No coverage out here.”

  “Radio?”

  “Of course we have one up at the store. But something’s wrong with it. Eventually someone from Seven Forks will brave the bears and bring up some parts. Then we’ll get it fixed.”

  I smiled at the Flowers as she put an enormous plate in front of Pete. It looked and smelled delicious.

  “But surely someone could come now if you called—oh this looks good.”

  “Called? Oh, the old phones don’t go to Seven Forks. They’re just for in town. Now you dig into that. The Flowers is our best cook,” I told him. “She doesn’t speak much English, but she wields a mean frying pan. She can cook anything her husband kills. Last week we had a wonderful squirrel roulade.”

  “Doesn’t speak much English?” Pete repeated weakly. Then: “Squirrel roulade?”

  “No, most of us don’t speak English. Oh, we have a few words. Someone can always direct you to a privy or a water pump—don’t you worry. And I’m sorry you missed the squirrel. But they are always breaking into the attic. I’m sure we’ll have it again soon.”

  Wendell, unable to contain himself any longer, reached for his hat.

  “Gotta go feed the dogs,” he said. “See you at the meeting.”

  * * *

  Chuck looked uneasily at his trainee. The Wings wasn’t being completely horrible, but still Thomas was looking a little green. Obviously he wasn’t a good flyer.

  “So much forest,” he said and then folded his lips tightly as though afraid that more than words would escape.

  Chuck just hoped they could make it to the Gulch without a messy incident. He really needed to start carrying Dramamine.

  * * *

  I do not enjoy town meetings, but this one was necessary and I was impatient to get things underway. The news was too urgent to delay even until nightfall. With the two surveyors asleep—one drugged and one under the influence of Big John’s home brew—we had to get everything explained and planned before Chuck arrived with his trainee.

  The odor of whisky was strong in the air. One didn’t have a meeting without alcoholic fortification for the vocal chords. At least not usually. But I thought of the calendar and only pretended to drink from Big John’s flask.

  “Slan,” I said, because I didn’t want any questions and there would be if I didn’t follow ritual. My neighbors didn’t judge, but they did speculate and gossip.

  As was customary, Big John was having trouble calling the meeting to order. Our mayor had many fine qualities but leading a town that refused to recognize Robert’s Rules of Order was not among them. He had banged his repaired gavel until there was a dent in the table that usually served as an altar where Father White or Reverend McNab preached the every other Sunday sermon. We were
in the community center instead of the pub so as to not wake the surveyors who were asleep upstairs.

  I was a little surprised to see Anatoli sitting with Horace and smoking a pipe, but the Russian was a sort of adopted resident of the Gulch and no one raised any objection to his being there. I had one moment where I thought of asking him if I could catch a ride back to Seven Forks, but dismissed it at once. My own worries had to take a backseat to the threat which faced our town. If we didn’t do something our little town would be at ground zero when the government broke ground and then all the king’s horses and all the king’s men wouldn’t be able to put things together again.

  Finally, I had had enough of the chaos. I stood on a wobbly chair, steadied by Big John, and when I spoke it was in Gaelic.

  “Don’t make me get the gun.”

  People blinked and fell silent. Gaelic wasn’t typically used unless there were government operatives in town. Sasha, who had already drawn a weapon, stowed it back in its sheath. That was just as well. Holes in the ceiling of the pub were normal. Bullets in the community center would take some explaining.

  “We have a problem—potentially a bad one. In fact, never mind the potentially part. If we don’t come up with a plan and fast, we are screwed.”

  There was more blinking at my direct language. I don’t usually indulge in coarse speech and it sounded especially bad in Gaelic.

  I noticed that Horace was whispering to Anatoli and assumed he was translating. Though, since his Gaelic was of the basic variety, I wasn’t sure how accurately the story was being translated.

  “We have two government surveyors in town. One is young and injured. The other is determined and bossy.” There were some rumbles about this, but the Gulch got the occasional rock hound looking for gold or a hiker who had lost their way. “They are here to map a route for a new pipeline—and the government wants to build it right through the Gulch.”