“Your pal is in for a lot more than that,” snapped Waters. “Old Man Potty was beat to death tonight. It happened right in the middle of his new plant.”
Merle shook his head, unwilling to believe it. “It’s a mistake,” he whispered. “It has to be.”
“We don’t make mistakes,” growled Waters, dumping his keys into his pocket. “Besides, we got two dozen eye witnesses seen your pal commit the crime and then flee the scene.”
“What happened to his eye?” asked Merle, flitting over to the robot. P.C.’s left eye blazed with life, but the glass of his right eye was shattered and lifeless.
“Even one armed, that old man got a punch in before that thing took him down,” said Water’s partner.
Both cops looked disgusted, and Waters shook his head sadly as they turned to go. “The old man went down fighting,” he said. “I hope I go down fighting, and not like some coward when my time comes.”
4
Alvy’s Farm
The wagon stopped dead in the mud, the incline of the hill looming ominously before them. Overhanging branches delivered a steady pattering of cast off raindrops against the roof as the storm intensified. “Looks like we might have to leave the wagon,” said Garrett, turning to Willie. “That hill is steep, and the track is slick. We’ve got four inches of mud, as it is.” A foggy breath escaped his lips as he spoke.
Willie remained seated on a barrel in the back of the wagon. He nodded his agreement to his friend. The Bowman had been listening to the rain drumming on the canvas overhead. He had also heard the wheels slushing through the mud and water. “Can you back it in under the pines? We passed a mossy glade about fifty yards back,” he pointed out of the back of the wagon. “We can get a pot of coffee on and sit out this downpour. Then, if you want, we can go on by foot. The Alvy’s cabin is up on that flat.”
Garrett wiped the rain from his eyes. “A fire would be a blessing right now. I think the water has trickled down my back and into my underpants.” He shuddered with the cold. Handing Willie the reigns, he jumped down from his seat to lead Eddie and Gerdie by their bridles.
Once the wagon had been maneuvered into position, Garrett set about unhitching the horses. Willie set up the awning and fetched dry firewood from the back of the wagon. By the time Garrett was done with the horses, Willie had a fire going and was setting a pot of water on to boil.
Garrett went to the back of the wagon and retrieved two wooden stools. Setting them by the fire, he held his hands out to the flames. “You ever see such a wet and miserable place?” he asked. “Your Devil will have been washed away before we find him.”
Willie laughed and tossed a satchel of dried beef at his friend. His aim was off though, and Garrett had to scramble to pull the sack back from the edge of the fire. “Only in the spring and fall,” said Willie, plunking down on his stool and chewing on a stick of beef. “The Lonely Wood is a lovely place in the summer. With sun dappled ridges full of game and creeks full of fish, a man can be happy here, Garrett. Hell, I was happy here.” Garrett nodded. He could hear the melancholy in Willie’s voice. He was uncertain how to respond. Before he could speak, Willie reached over for the bag of jerky. “They don’t call it the Lonely Wood for nothing, though. A man needs his freedom, but I’ve always been a social bug myself.”
Garrett laughed. “I’ll say,” he agreed. “But you had Heindi and his gang to keep you company out here. They couldn’t have been all bad?”
“No, they weren’t all bad,” agreed Willie. “The men were hard working, I’ll give them that. You may recall we had a real nice setup; every man had his own shack. We had a communal eatery, stores, and a drinking hall where the men would gather to partake in a mug of beer and a tall tale. We were indeed free men back then.”
“So, if Heindi didn’t turn on you, you might have stayed?” Garrett repositioned the wood on the fire with his boot.
“Not likely,” said Willie, glancing up wistfully. “Heindi did me a favor and sped the process, but it was inevitable that I would leave. I need the company of others too much. I feel stale if I don’t get around and meet folks. It’s always been my calling to entertain the masses. Two years here, and I could hear the road calling me. But like I said, they weren’t all bad times.”
A snap from behind the wagon alerted the men to another presence, and they both turned to see a soaking wet intruder freeze in his tracks at the back of the cart. The newcomer was dressed in old leathers, with an oiled hood pulled low over his forehead. A bright pair of eyes squinted from beneath the hood, watching the men. He nodded in their direction before coming over to the fire. “Howdy,” he said quietly. “You fellars from the Chronicle?”
Now that he had spoken, the men could tell their visitor was a young teen. “No,” said Willie, motioning for their guest to come warm himself. “Why would you ask that? Do we look like newspaper men?” Willie laughed.
The boy shrugged and held his hands out to the fire. “You ain’t from this neck of the woods, so I sposed yous come from the big city.”
“You guessed right,” said Garrett, with a smile. “This here is Willie Taylor from Cassadia, and I’m Garrett Willigins from Deep Cove…” Garrett offered his hand in greeting, but at mention of Willie’s name the boy had turned to face the older man.
“Willie Taylor,” he breathed in wonder, “the famous sharpshooter?” Willie was unable to keep a grin from his face. “Wull, I’ll be a puckered prune,” continued the youth. “My pappy knows ya! He telled me he hunted barr with ya back in the day. Do ya have the Impaler with ya? I’d love to see her.”
Willie stood and shook the boy’s hand. “You must be Glory Alvy’s boy, Gren?”
“Pleased to meet ya, Mister Taylor.”
Garrett chuckled and mouthed the name “Glory” at Willie, but the bowman was too busy with his new friend to take notice.
Willie led the boy to the back of the wagon and produced the Impaler for the youth to see. The lad took it in a reverent grip, a low whistle escaping his lips. “She’s a beauty.” He looked to Willie, a hopeful glint in his eye. “Can I shoot her?”
Willie chuckled and removed the bow from the boy’s hands. Carefully, he set it back in the wagon. Gren looked deflated, but Willie put a hand on the lad’s shoulder and steered him back to the fire. “Normally, I wouldn’t let another man shoot my bow,” he said, taking up his stool and passing the bag of dried beef to the boy, “but Glory is a good man, and I’m sure he raised his son to be a good man too. You can shoot her when the weather dries up. No sense subjecting a fine bow like that to the elements.”
“No sense, at all!” agreed Gren with a toothy grin. He helped himself to a stick of jerky, and handed the bag back to Willie. “Did ya come to hunt the beast?” he asked, matter-of-factly.
“Why would you think that?” asked Willie, taken aback.
“Heavens to betsy, why else would Vellia’s greatest sharpshootin’ Tom come all the way down hare? Less you come to see pappy? He telled me he knows ya, I just weren’t sure. Sometimes he likes to pull my leg.” Gren broke into laughter.
“We read about the beast in the paper. I figured if it really existed, I’d like to see it for myself,” said Willie with a grin.
“Oh it exists, Mister Taylor,” said Gren excitedly, his eyes growing big. “I seed it for myself.” He tapped himself in the center of his chest with his thumb. “I’s the one that found our missing goats. Tored up carcasses was littered ‘cross the upper valley. Blood trail led right back to the cave it holed up in.” He spit in the moss beside his boot and shook his head at the awful memory. “Course, I weren’t dumb enough to get close.”
“Could have been a bear or a lion,” said Willie carefully.
“It weren’t no barr and it weren’t no cayut either, Mister Taylor,” replied Gren with conviction. “I told yous, I seed it for myself. It weren’t on that day, but since then. Him’s twice as big as any barr I ever seed, and lots faster, too. Me and Ma seed it crossin’ the high passes,
not a month gone by. Ma wouldn’t let me stay and watch though. She grabbed up my arm and hauled me back home quick as a hare. Ma says it’s a bad omen to attract thar attentions.”
“Bad omen?” asked Garrett.
“Wull, unless ya want to end up dead, Mister,” said Gren without any trace of humour. “I thinks Ma knows what she’s jawin’ ‘bout, too. The night we got home, we heard a god awful screamin’ from outside the cabin. It circled the place all night. Ma braced the door, but neither of us slept a wink. Come dawn, we heard it howlin’ down in the lower valley. When pappy got home from his hunt, he said it was warning us to mind our own beeswax and give the critter a wide berth.”
“You think it was stalking you?” asked Garrett in disbelief.
“I told ya, it was a warning,” said Gren, with a touch of impatience. “Grandpappy telled me, the beast comes every so often to punish the wicked. Mind your manners and keep neighbourly and ya should be alright.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Garrett, but his sarcasm was lost on the boy.
“How far to your farm?” asked Willie, changing the subject with a subtle look in Garrett’s direction.
“Up yon hill,” said the lad with a thumb jerk over his shoulder in the direction of the muddy slope. “But you two missed the track an eighth o’ a mile back that would bring ya up the back way. Rains got the hill too muddy for this contraption.” He nodded at the covered wagon. “Pack your bags, and I’ll show ya the way.”
“Thank you,” said Willie, standing and stretching.
“Ma should have soup on for lunch,” said Gren. “She always makes lots, so you’re welcome to sit for a bite.”
“After a week of Willie’s dried beef, it will be a welcome change,” divulged Garrett.
“Sure,” agreed the boy, with a shrug. “We’re slaughterin’ hogs today. Ya can pay your way by helping.”
* * * *
“Boy, where you been at?” hollered Glory Alvy. The man stood in the lee of an old barn, wrestling a large pig carcass over one shoulder, trying to get it into a steaming barrel that had been setup beside a crude butchering table. Resting the animal’s head on the rim of the barrel, Glory extended an arm out to his wife, who had fallen beside the barrel. She accepted his help to get back on her feet, before dusting her bottom and limping to the table, where she leaned heavily against it. “Your ma’s gone and twisted an ankle, now. What I tell ya about responsibilities?” Glory slammed the pig into the water with a powerful thrust and turned to face his boy. Seeing Garrett and Willie emerge from the trees at the edge of the farmstead, he motioned for his son to come to the table. “Git that hog’s legs roped up, and the rope over the beam,” he said sternly. “Make sure to thread it through the pulley.” Going to his wife, he spoke softly to her and rubbed her lower back. It was obvious the woman was in a good deal of discomfort. Beside them, a black and white dog came out from under the table where it had been lying in the dirt. He stretched slowly and came over to greet the newcomers, his tail wagging.
Garrett assessed the Alvys, and was reminded of his father. Like Kirk Willigins, Glory was also a big man with broad shoulders built up from years of work. He wore an old pair of coveralls and a checkered wool shirt, with rolled up sleeves. He was balding on top, but his hair was thick and grey on the sides. Glory’s wife was a plump woman in her fifties, with lines etched into her once youthful features. Her hair was streaked with grey, and Garrett could tell she was a sturdy woman used to the hardships of eking out a life in the Lonely Wood.
“Dee Alvy,” chirped Willie, “still working as hard as any man, I see.” The bowman approached the couple with a grin. He held his hand out to Glory when the other man turned, but the woodsman ignored the offering and instead took Willie by the shoulders, pulling him into a hug.
“Wild Willie!” he exclaimed, slapping his friend on the back. “Look what the storm blew in, Mother!” Dee Alvy had turned from the table when Willie called out, and her smile was no less genuine than her husband’s. She too embraced Willie, and the bowman was beaming when the pair let him step back.
“And who’d ya bring with ya?” inquired Glory. The man’s blue eyes sparkled as he shook Garrett’s hand.
“Garrett Willigins,” said Garrett with a smile. He stepped up to Dee, so she wouldn’t have to walk on her twisted ankle, and shook her hand, too.
Seeing his boy struggling with the two hundred pound hog, Glory grabbed hold of the rope the boy had run over a beam extending from the barn. Hauling on the end of it, he took the weight of the pig as Gren guided the animal to rest on the butchering table. Nodding to his father, the boy took up a bell scraper and began rasping the hair from the animal.
“What brings you to our neck of the woods?” asked Glory, picking up his own scraper. Turning to his wife, he nodded to the log cabin across the yard. “You git yourself out of this drizzle, Mother. Put that foot up and rest a spell. The men will finish up hare.”
Dee smiled. “I’ll fix you fellars some food,” she said and hobbled toward the house.
Glory shook his head and waved his scraper in her direction as he whispered to Garrett. “Tellin’ her to rest a spell is like tellin’ the dog he caint chase squirrels.” At this, the dog’s tail thumped the ground from where he had taken up position under the table again. “You see a squirrel, dog?” teased Glory. “Git him, boy.” The dog’s tail thumped faster and he let out a quiet whimper.
“Garrett and I have come to hunt the mighty beast.” Willie thumped his chest and howled. He laughed when the dog came out from under the table to stare at him.
“You’d best let the beast alone,” said Glory. He dropped the hind leg he had been scraping and waited for Gren to finish the section of pig he was working. “The olduns say it’s death to those who hunt the Devil.”
“Olduns?” asked Garrett. He knelt and slapped his leg, calling for the dog. He patted the mangy mutt and scratched its head as Willie rolled up his sleeves. Gren set his scraper down at some unknown signal from his father, and the two men used the rope to raise the pig up again. Glory nodded to his son, and Gren guided the animal back into the hot water.
“The old ones are the hill people that live in these parts. They’re an ancient tribe known as the Mogi. They’re almost as legendary as the Devil itself. They don’t show themselves to outsiders often, but Glory and I knew the chief, back in the day,” Willie told Garrett.
“I knows the present chief too,” said Glory meaningfully, “and he’d tell ya the same: it’s a death curse to hunt the Devil.”
“Nonsense,” said Willie, crossing to the table. “The old ones have beliefs that go back centuries, but you and I both know their stories aren’t always based in fact. You pass the harmony pipe around enough, and sooner or later you’ll see spirits.”
Glory stopped cleaning the hair from the table and pointed his scrapper at Willie. “Just like old Willie hare,” he said grinning. “If he caint shoot it with an arrow, he has a hard time believin’ it’s thar. Wull I’s been round long enough to know better. I’ve felt things in the arr that ain’t natural. The old ones understand that better ‘an anybody. They say the Deepbrook Devil’s a spirit protector of the woods.” He looked at Garrett and raised his eyebrows for emphasis, “and it’s somethin’ that caint be killed by the likes of us. Even him, with his legendary bow, don’t stand no chance.”
“Oh I’m not arguing the beast’s existence,” said Willie, “Just all that mystical hocus-pocus about an irritated spirit guardian. The Devil is real flesh and blood. Maybe it’s a crossbred bear or perhaps some other near extinct specimen. Either way, I’ll know more when I hang it above my fireplace.” He grinned at Garrett’s discomfort.
Glory spat in the dirt beside the table and nodded to his boy. Together they hefted the pig from the water and dropped it down on the table, again. Willie grabbed onto the pig’s leg opposite Glory. Rolling the hog onto its back, he held it in place while the other men worked the hair, again.
“Y
a caint kill it and ya shouldn’t try,” argued Glory. “The Devil has biness in these hare woods, and when its biness is settled, we’ll hare no more of it ‘til the spirit’s needed agin.”
“So this means you won’t join us?” asked Willie, with mock sadness.
“Hell no,” roared Glory. Gren laughed at the conviction in his father’s tone and was rewarded with a scowl from his dad. “Sides, its butcherin’ season, and we gots goats need to get to Arbrud village. We leave in two days.”
“Least we can show ‘em to old Rooks pass, Pa? That won’t take more an three or four hours. From thar, they can follar the river.”
Glory motioned to the barn with a sideways shake of his head. “Git the wheelbarrow, boy.” He turned to Willie and passed his friend the rope. “We’ll git this critter hanging and split, then go have a bite.” He looked to Garrett and smiled. “Jump in Garrett. This hog’s a meaty one. You boys take the weight, and I’ll tie it off. Sides,” he said with a wink at Garrett, “lunch tastes better when you git yer hands dirty.” He laughed at the look of revulsion that crossed Garrett’s face.
“He doesn’t mean it literally,” consoled Willie, with a chuckle. “You know what they say about hard work building an appetite.”
“And I’m always hungry,” laughed Glory. He tied off the rope when Garrett and Willie hoisted the hog up to the beam.
“Is that wheelbarrow for the guts?” asked Willie as Gren returned with the ancient apparatus.
“Yes sir,” rumbled Glory, beginning work with his knife on the carcass. “Normally, I’d bury them down yonder, but I think we’ll burn em, just to be safe. We don’t want to attract any unwanted attention from our friend.”
“Actually…” stated Willie, leaving the word to hang in the cool morning air.
Glory turned and looked long and hard at his friend. He shook his head unhappily. At last, he returned to the pig. “It’s yer neck,” he said solemnly.
Something Stinks in Deep Cove (The Vellian Books Book 4) Page 6
