by J. L. Salter
“The only one I’ve seen...or at least that I can remember. So where are your neighbors?”
“People live farther down the slope and almost all around the perimeter of Hardscrabble’s base, but nobody’s any higher than me on this side. These ten acres go back to my great grandfather. When his son, my grandfather, died, he left his forty-acre homestead to be divided by his four children. My aunts and uncles sold theirs to a lumber company, but my dad kept his ten, the only part to stay in the family all this time. Now it’s down to me.”
“You had no siblings?”
“Well, I bought out my brother and sister. They wanted to live in civilization. I prefer the mountain...and my property faces due west.”
“So that’s where you got the name Due West High.”
“Actually, my great grandparents used that as their address during their lifetimes. And I kind of liked it. Specific enough for anyone who knows Hardscrabble Mountain, but general enough that I wouldn’t likely be bothered by kids selling candy door-to-door.”
“Yeah, I can picture you’d be spared those intrusions.”
Despite the heavy, rough beard, his smile was soft…yet seemed to include residual sadness. “No, I don’t get too many interruptions.” He picked up the magazine beside his chair.
“So, how far is it to the little town down there?”
“With all the switchbacks carved out by the CCC in the thirties, this narrow dirt road runs about seventeen miles from the bottom edge of the mountain to this point.”
“We must be pretty high up.”
“Not nearly as high as Snake Mountain, but greater elevation than what they call the Tennessee Valley to the west.”
She recognized only the name of the valley.
“The east side of Boar Mount borders the bottom edge of this mountain. Not sure why these switchbacks are so long, but they average about a mile apiece. And it’s still plenty steep and slow-going.”
“So what’s the actual direct distance?”
“Like you were going to fly?”
She nodded.
“Hard to say for sure, because there’s so many obstacles and the overall slope is so steep. But I’d estimate about three miles if you were on an unobstructed zip line. Why?”
“Just wondering if you can see the little town from here.”
“Not now, and certainly not in the summer when all the growth is so dense. But in the late fall after the foliage has dropped, and through the winter, you can see it...on a clear day.”
“I’ll bet it’s pretty.”
“Even prettier at night—clear night, no clouds. You can see the belfry light in the church steeple, the clock tower light on the little courthouse, and the high security pole light of the hardware store. The houselights are kind of a dim blur, but those three tall lights, in a straight line, are very bright—almost like a small constellation of stars.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“Come back and I’ll show you.”
“Only in cold weather?”
“No, I can see those three lights on almost any clear night. They’re bright enough to spot even through the foliage.”
Outside, a new flash of lightning blazed in the distance and they both braced for the thunder a few seconds later.
She jumped anyway. “Oh, I just remembered something else.”
He put down the magazine he’d started. “From your experience last night?”
“No, a question I wanted to ask. What all do you get on these monthly visits to the town? Is everything you need really in what seems to be just a hamlet?”
“Gosh, you’re nosy,” he said with an unrestrained grin. “Okay, here’s the whole itinerary. I stop in at the bank to replenish my cash supply if I need any, then check with Maylene at the post office if there’s any mail. I drop in on Constable Wyatt to check on local matters I need to be aware of...if there are any, then go to the feed store for my horse’s feed and hay. And I almost always visit with Digger at the hardware store.”
“That’s where your consignments are.”
He nodded.
“Ever get sick?”
He laid the magazine in his lap and closed his eyes. “Oh, maybe once a year I catch a cold. The medium-sized grocery store has a drug section.”
“So there is a grocery down there.”
“That’s where I get any veggies I don’t grow and also buy things like juice, seasoning, and soup stock.”
“That’s it? No stops at the local bar?”
“I brew my own beer up here.” He pointed toward the kitchen area. “Maybe I should let you sample it.”
She scrunched up her nose. “No big games at the pool hall?”
“Doesn’t interest me.”
“No entertainment whatsoever?”
He was slow to reply. “Well, I do have one other stop.”
“Which is…?”
Another pause while he positioned his magazine again. “Personal.”
He’s determined not to mention his love life. She mentally tallied his itinerary. “With these monthly trips, it must take a long time down there to handle everything.”
“Sometimes it does.”
“So I guess you’re dragging back up the mountain pretty late sometimes.”
“Occasionally.” He obviously knew she wanted more information. “And sometimes I stay over.”
Aha! There is a girl down here. Somehow knowing that made her feel better...yet, at the same time, worse. Puzzling. “So back up to that hardware store, which apparently has more than the Mega-Mall where I shop.”
He pointed at her head. “You remembered something else.”
“So I did.” But she waved it away. “So what all do you get from this hardware store?”
“Why so curious about hardware supplies?”
“I’m still struggling with this notion that every single thing you need is either right here on the mountainside or down in that little town. Doesn’t seem possible.”
“Probably wouldn’t be for most folks...and there are more stores in Mountain City, if I cared to travel that far.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s the county seat.” He smiled patiently. “Okay, the local hardware store is owned by two brothers and one of them operates the dry goods section, which occupies about a third of the space.”
“So instead of shopping on-line, you get clothes and boots there.” She pointed to his present footwear.
“Right. Then about a third is lumber and building supplies.”
“For repairs and the furniture you make.”
“Uh huh. And the other third is more of your classic hardware store of a generation ago.” From the small table next to his easy chair, he picked up a shopping list and began reading. “Next trip, I’ll get nails of various sizes, gasoline, assorted bolts, toothpaste, kerosene, screws of various sizes, soap, assorted washers and nuts, and lube.”
“Lube?”
Wilder nodded and put down the list.
“Dare I ask what the lube is for?”
Slight smile. “Very intimate...a delicate matter of intense friction.”
When she blushed, Wilder laughed.
“Scarlett, it’s for the windmill’s motor and blade assembly...and the sucker rod.”
“Oh.” She swatted in his direction, but didn’t make contact. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“Just did.”
“Yeah, but you deliberately steered me to think it was something else.”
“I’m helping you remember things you didn’t realize.” He chuckled. “And I only teased you because you’ve been awfully nosy.”
“I apologize, Cody. Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something inside me that just cranks out questions and then I file away the data because I think I’ll be able to use it some day.”
“This could be significant. Use it for what?”
“Don’t know. Can’t remember.”
“Well, when you figure it out, I’m going to want to know, too.
Because you’ve basically sifted more data from me in about an hour than I’ve revealed to anyone else who’s known me for several years.”
“Including that personal reason individual you sometimes stay with overnight in town?”
He didn’t respond. But he did suddenly eye the southwest window and jump from his chair. “The storm’s finally passing.”
Chapter Twelve
The woman who was temporarily Scarlett brightened. “So we can leave now?”
Wilder shook his head. “Have to check the road first, remember?”
She slumped back down to the loveseat. “Shouldn’t I come along?”
“Too dangerous if you don’t know Hardscrabble’s terrain. If you fall and break something, I can’t carry you back up here. Very slippery after heavy rains. In fact, you’re lucky you didn’t pitch over the edge last night in the dark.”
As he located a powerful lantern and his outerwear, he also strapped a large hunting knife on his belt, then shrugged into a shoulder holster with a hefty revolver.
“What kind of trouble are you expecting out there?” She pointed to the gun. “I would’ve figured you might need a shovel or a rope.”
He gazed at her evenly for a moment, then softened his expression. “Scarlett, this is a fairly uncivilized section of a sizeable mountain within a huge mountain range. All kinds of critters you don’t want to run into. Now that the weather is clearing, some of them might be out checking things like I am.”
She gulped as she nodded.
“While I’m gone, keep the cabin locked,” he said, pointing to the wooden bar. “But don’t use the deadbolt.” He touched the forged iron fixture. Then he pointed to the double-barreled shotgun learning against the inside of the door. “It’s loaded. You know how to use it?”
Another gulp. “Pull back both hammers...aim, pull trigger twice?” Not sure how she knew that.
“Tuck it tight into your shoulder. Kicks like a deranged mule.” He looked as though he’d say something else on the topic, but didn’t. “I’m hiking down to that first sharp curve—where it’s washed out before. It takes three calls to a congressman to get anybody up here to fix it.”
No clocks visible, but it was probably around nine p.m. “You’ll be back soon...right?”
“Depends on what I run into.”
“You’re scaring me, Cody. Is this still about critters? Or some other trouble out there?”
“I love this mountain, Scarlett, but it’s a harsh and unforgiving environment. You take anything for granted and you can get humbled real quick.”
That doesn’t help any. “How long will you be gone?”
“That first bad curve is maybe two miles down the seventeen-mile road. If you’re walking on a neighborhood sidewalk, it doesn’t take long. But out here, on this slope, at night...well, it takes a lot longer.”
“So half an hour down and half an hour back up.”
“Not that simple, Scarlett. If the first bad curve is basically intact, I’ll need to hike down to the next place that usually washes out. Won’t do us any good to set out down the mountain and find we can only get half way.”
“How far is the second spot?”
“I’ve never measured it with an odometer, but on horseback, in daylight on dry road, it’s three more switchbacks—another three-quarters of an hour at least.”
She quickly did the arithmetic. “So maybe thirty minutes to the first spot, then another forty-five to the second one. And an equal amount of time getting back.” It was sounding like two-and-a-half hours total.
“Minimum. But it takes longer coming back up the mountain.” Wilder fidgeted with the lantern. “Look, you can’t pin this down too closely. It’ll be a good while...I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
“Shouldn’t you wait ‘til morning for this trek?”
“If I do, then we lose too much of tomorrow’s daylight just on the trial run. By the time I’d hike back up here and get you all collected, we’d be racing against sundown again. Then you’d have to travel in the dark.”
“Oh.”
“Now, the quicker I get going, the sooner I’ll be back.” He patted his shoulder holster, buttoned his heavy brown barn jacket and raised its collar, then set his wide-brimmed hat. When he shined his lantern toward the large thermometer visible through the window glass, the outside temperature was just below fifty degrees—pretty cool for April—and the moist air made it seem colder. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” She gulped. “But hurry back.”
For about the first hour Wilder was gone, the idle and worried guest tried to read a book, evidently by a local author, about the history of the Boar Mount settlement and the west side of what the earliest settlers had called Hardscrabble Mountain. Evidently that name appeared on no official maps, however. But she couldn’t concentrate. Then she took a piece of typing paper from the drawer she’d seen Wilder use and began doodling with a pencil from the desktop. Before long, she realized she was actually sketching the cabin’s interior. “Hmm. One of those high school art classes must’ve made an impression.” Another memory.
But once she filled that page, she lost interest. Or focus. Being in this isolated cabin in a remote area of this unpopulated mountainside at night was uncomfortable enough, but finding herself totally alone made her terribly uneasy.
So uneasy, in fact, that she almost wished Wilder had brought his rooster back inside to keep her company. But Beethoven had long since roosted somewhere in the barn, presumably well off the ground. “Funny that I can remember a chicken needs to perch, but I don’t know my own name or place of residence,” she said to herself. “But since I’ve got lots of time to kill, I might as well learn a bit more about this solitary mountain man.”
So she began poking around the cabin for clues about Wilder’s life. The place was sparsely furnished and featured no decorations to speak of. Nothing hanging on the plank walls except pegs for his outerwear. But she recalled a few items on top of his dresser, though up so high she couldn’t see properly. So she dragged one of the sturdy, homemade kitchen chairs to the north wall. She paused to consider why a mountain man living alone would have two dining chairs, but couldn’t take that puzzle very far.
Comfortably perched, she scrutinized—but did not touch—the array of items atop his tall dresser. A few small photos, basically snapshots, in dusty simple frames. One showed Wilder in high school, in a track outfit. Track, unless he ran relays, was a rather solitary sport. Another was of him, presumably college age, standing next to an attractive young woman with a dog. “Presumably, this is Maggie,” said Scarlett to herself, “who’s either his ex-wife or ex-fiancé. No way did the handsome Cody Wilder get through college without a woman’s hooks in him.”
In another photo, presumably taken after college since his face looked slightly fuller, he was wearing dark denim jeans, a lighter color denim shirt, and was clean-shaven. Without all the whiskers, Wilder’s face could be that of a Hollywood leading man—rugged, tanned, strong featured, with a relaxed, confident smile. His tousled brown hair was shorter in the photo; his bright blue-gray eyes muted by the angle of the sun. Maybe that was about the time he’d gotten his patent for the comb gizmo. If so, it was presumably three or four years ago, while he was still teaching. Other than an aversion to razors, he hadn’t changed much since that photo. Still had the broad shoulders and narrow hips, but he’d likely added a few pounds. Muscle, not fat.
Other items atop the dresser were an old-looking pocketknife, a weathered bronze compass, an opened box of .357 magnum cartridges, and a military medal case with lots of accumulated dust. She wanted to open it, but couldn’t without leaving clear indications she’d meddled with his medal.
Just as she was puzzling over what type of medal it might be and whether it was awarded to Wilder rather than to a relative of his, she heard something and whipped around, nearly losing her footing on the chair.
A howl in the distance. At least I hope it’s distant. Her heart pounded an
d she eyed the box of cartridges. Suddenly she wished Wilder had taken the 12 gauge and left her with the revolver. She tiptoed to the window and looked out. Nothing but darkness, though it seemed the waxing gibbous moonlight might be beneficial to Wilder, wherever he was along the western slope.
She dragged the chair back into position near the table, then sat again at Wilder’s desk. Nothing much but a ledger book, a quick scan of which revealed he spent very little. Next to it was a record book which appeared to be part journal, part notes about his research and/or experiments in solar collection and battery storage. Also some dog-eared catalogs with equipment and products apparently geared toward people off-grid. Finally, a few pieces of mail she resisted temptation to examine.
Next, Scarlett stood and gazed at the plans on Wilder’s drafting board. There were several pages, much smaller than typically used by architects—these were probably standard 11 X 17 sheets from an office supply store. His work was in pencil, with lots of erasures and notes. It was clear the new cabin would not only have a larger footprint, but be taller, with upper lofts on each side. One was to be a studio of sorts, the other was not labeled. Unlike the existing dwelling, the new cabin would have interior walls segregating both the bedroom and bathroom array from the main living space. The bathroom featured a toilet, shower, and sink. Bedroom looked much larger, with sufficient space for at least a queen-sized bed, instead of the single he had presently. Much larger closet, which even had a folding door! The kitchen would be larger and have more storage but no walls to define it.
There were no frills, no indication of space for additional appliances or gadgets. No sign the larger cabin would use any more energy than the current one—but he’d written plentiful notes about passive solar and additional harnessing of wind power. The wall facing the mountain would include a sizeable fireplace and his skylight would be situated in the ceiling near the west end of the cabin.
All in all, it was the type of cabin in which—if you didn’t know it was off the grid—you might find yourself quite comfortable. Maybe even enough room for two.
Pondering the planned cabin, Scarlett sat in Wilder’s rugged easy chair and tucked her feet beneath her. Total silence inside and out, except for the small fridge cycling about every fifteen minutes and that whatever outside howling when it pleased itself—and sounding closer each time.
