7 Wild East

by Melanie Jackson

  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.

  “I saw someone take the survey equipment last night,” he said abruptly. “Actually, let me amend that statement. I saw someone take two large backpacks from the inn. I am assuming it was the survey equipment.”

  “How careless of someone,” I said drily. “But I am sure they will bring everything back again shortly.”

  “There are two surveyors?”

  “Yes. One is a boy—only eighteen and on his first job. And he’s hurt. It’s only a sprain but Pete has kept him walking on the sprain for days instead of turning back and it has made it worse. Doc says he has to stay in bed with the leg up or risk permanent damage. Anyway, you can’t take an injured person into bear country when they can’t even run.” The Mountie didn’t say anything. “Officer, I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea about what you think you saw last night.”

  “I wouldn’t want that either.”

  Thomas stopped suddenly, staring at my cottage.

  “It’s okay,” I assured him. “It’s just our dog, Max.”

  “Dog?”

  “A wolf hybrid,” I answered. Like I said before, I am a good liar for the right cause. “A lot of us have them because a wolf pack is one of the few things the bears fear. I wouldn’t step foot into the forest without Max.”

  “About those bears.…”

  “Thomas,” I said. “Listen carefully—because your life may depend on it. Whatever you think you saw, or know about last night, there are bears out there. And they kill people. I’ve watched it happen—I saw a man ripped to shreds right in front of me. Last year, we had a funeral for a hand—that was all that was left of the woman after a day of the animals feasting. Don’t go into the woods without a guide and a rifle—if you didn’t pack one for this trip, then take one of mine. Anyone who goes out into the woods unarmed or with just a pistol is asking to get dead. And the bad part is other people might get hurt trying to rescue you. Dealing with bears will be your first lesson in the wild. Our best guide, Wendell Thunder, will teach you how to track them. Though, seriously, not tracking them is the better choice. Chuck will tell you this too.”

  Thomas nodded and we began walking again. Again, he did not seem properly dismayed. Perhaps he had never seen a bear and did not know how terrifying they could be.

  “Let me introduce you to Max. Are you a dog person?” I asked.

  “I like most animals,” Thomas said, kneeling down and offering a hand. Max came dancing over making soft ululations. Obviously he liked the new recruit just fine and was trying to lure him into play.

  Watching Thomas pet my wolf, I saw the man that he might be, under the right circumstances, and decided that I liked him. In potential, at least. Stationed at least a hundred kilometers away, I might really grow fond of him.


  “Do you like buttermilk pancakes and bacon?” I asked after a moment. “Though I should warn you that bacon around here tends to smell a little like dog breath since Max pants every time I cook it.”

  “I like whatever you serve me,” he said, standing back up. He looked a shade less dignified with Max’s hair on his knees and cuffs.

  “Your mama raised you right,” I said, but knew instantly that this was the wrong thing to say because he pokered up again.

  “Actually, it was my grandmother.”

  “We have that in common then,” I said and started for the house. Chuck came out to greet us. If he was surprised to see Thomas he didn’t let on.

  “Come in and have some coffee,” Chuck said. “Let us prove that we aren’t completely uncivilized.”

  “Has Wendell been by yet?” I asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m thinking that maybe the first forest lesson had better be about bears. We have tracks in town and that means they are close. Far better to be safe than dead.”

  * * *

  Between the Gaelic and the elliptical verbal shorthand of the people they encountered, Thomas had trouble understanding anything that was said as he and Detective Chuck Goodhead strolled through town on the way to Wendell Thunder’s house. It might all be inconsequentialities, but then it might not. At least people were nodding at him that morning.

  It did not escape his notice that everyone—man or woman—was carrying a gun.

  Though he had no use for idle speculation, he had to also wonder if the town’s distilled hostility toward outsiders could become an actual poison in the right circumstances. Put another way, if the surveyor tried to walk out of the Gulch, would they let him go? Butterscotch had warned him pretty clearly about the danger of the forest. Had the surveyor been warned as well?

  Of course he had. He just didn’t believe them about the bears. He spent his time in the wild and thought there was nothing to fear.