by Gary D. Svee
“Oh, she likes that couch. I knew she would. She’s got taste. You can just tell she’s got taste.” “Did you see the look on her face when she saw the kitchen? I think she was looking at that Majestic stove.” “No, it wasn’t the stove; it was that table and chair set. Sam Gibbons made that out of walnut, and it’s just beautiful.” “They could entertain the governor in that sitting room.”
Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter and Catherine Lang sat together on the couch in their front room. Mac and his mother sat on spindly, stiff-backed chairs, and Yellowstone County Sheriff Big Jim Thompson sprawled in an overstuffed chair, comfortable as a cat.
Thompson yawned. “S’pose I should go into town and get something to eat.”
“Eat?” Drinkwalter said. “You ate half that table this afternoon.”
“Did not,” Big Jim said. “Just gnawed a little at one of the corners. Besides, a man’s got to keep his energy up.”
“Keep your energy up? If you had any less, you’d be hibernating.”
Both men grinned.
Drinkwalter shook his head. “I didn’t know how to thank them. The words just wouldn’t come.”
“You got that twisted,” Thompson said. “All this is a thank-you for things you’ve done for them. They’re grateful, just like the people in Billings are grateful to me. It’s just that the Billings bunch is not so … demonstrative.”
“Yeah, they hold it in really well,” Drinkwalter said, and both men grinned again.
Drinkwalter sighed. “Mary, I know this is a lot to ask, but I would really appreciate it if you and Mac could stay here at the house until the wedding. I don’t want to leave her out here alone.”
Catherine broke in, “I would like to go into Eagles Nest tomorrow to see the town, learn my way around. I’m more than a little curious about this place where I will spend the rest of my life.”
Mary smiled. “We would be pleased to show you around, but there isn’t all that much to see.”
“From what I saw today, I know I’ll love it.”
A frown crossed Catherine’s face as she turned to Mary. “I know this is terribly unfair to be asking so much of you, but would you please do us the honor of standing up with us at our wedding?”
“I would be pleased to,” Mary said.
Drinkwalter broke in. “Mac, would you be my best man?”
Mac blinked. “You want me to be your best man?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” Mac whispered.
“And Jim, would you give Catherine away?”
Thompson shook his head. “No, no way in the world I’d ever give her away. She’s a keeper.”
Drinkwalter stared at his friend, and Thompson sighed. “I would be honored to do that for you,” he said. “I’ll have to go back to Billings tonight—that is, if I can get Harold away from that Miss Pinkham. He went all starry-eyed. But I’ll be back in time for the wedding. There isn’t anything in this world that could make me miss that.”
“It’s settled, then. We’ve got everything taken care of.”
“Everything except Galt,” Thompson whispered.
“Yes, everything but Galt.”
25
Jack Galt peered through the heat of the forge at Leaks Donnan, cringing in a dark corner. Galt smiled. That’s where Donnan belonged, in a corner in the dark.
Donnan was a sycophant, a miserable little man with no power. Still, he had his uses. He was a skulker, a man who hid in shadows. If he saw something of value untended, he took it. If he saw a woman preparing for a bath, he watched. If a drunk were passed out in an alley, Donnan would take his money and put his boots to playing a tune of his own weakness on the drunk’s ribs.
Donnan knew things other people didn’t know, and he shared that information with Galt. So Galt let Donnan sit in the shadows of the smithy.
Donnan coveted the blacksmith’s power. Galt knew that, but the little man might as well want the moon. If he transferred even an infinitesimal bit of his power to that pathetic little man, Donnan would puff up like a balloon and explode, raining blood and guts on unknowing passersby. The thought made Galt grin, his teeth reflecting the red heat of the fire.
Donnan cringed in his corner. Galt’s grins were feral at best, and lighted by the forge, his mouth seemed filled with raw meat. Donnan didn’t want to think about that. Donnan didn’t want to think about anything, so he spoke. “Not much business today.”
“No. They must be up to something.”
“They’re over at the railroad station. Sheriff’s waiting for his bride, and they all want to get a look at her.”
Galt’s head jerked up. “The sheriff’s bride?”
“Yeah, from back East someplace. Must be a mail-order bride. No woman who knew the sheriff would marry him.” Donnan laughed at his own joke, the sound irritatingly like the squeaking of a rat.
“A whore would. A whore would marry the sheriff.”
“I s’pose.”
Galt pulled a bar of steel from the fire, the metal glowing red with heat. “I can finish this later. Let’s go see this whore.”
Donnan scrambled into the light. “Yeah, let’s go see this whore.”
Galt dipped his hands into a bucket beside the forge, washing smoke from his face and neck. The two stepped into the sunlight then, both blinking against the sharp morning light. Galt didn’t like the light. The sun scratched at his skin, and he didn’t like being in places where he might be seen. He plunged across the street into the shadows of cottonwoods beyond.
Galt and Donnan broke free of the trees just as the train shuddered to a stop at the depot. The two scrambled over the rail bed, slipping a little as they reached the top. But the crowd didn’t hear the clatter of cascading rock. The crowd’s attention was fixed on the train.
Galt and Donnan scrambled into the shadows beneath the water tower, hiding themselves from the sun’s bright light and public scrutiny. Galt could see the sheriff standing on the landing, holding a bouquet of flowers.
Galt chuckled despite himself. Carrying flowers to a whore: that was Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter, all right. The grin fled Galt’s face. Big Jim Thompson was leading a bunch of deputies up to the train. Galt shrunk back into the shadows.
“Whooee,” Donnan croaked. “Whooee, she’s a beauty, ain’t she, Jack?”
Donnan had climbed several feet up the water tower. Galt joined him. From that perspective, they could see over the crowd. From that perspective, Jack Galt could see Catherine Lang. She was wearing a green dress, one of those fancy ones from big stores like they had in Billings. Her hair was honey-colored and it shone in the sun. He could see her face. She was pretty, beautiful even for a whore.
Silence nagged Mac awake. The boy stirred, looking around the room, trying to fathom where he was and how he had come to be there. The freshly painted walls were disconcerting, and the silence rubbed at his senses.
The trees whispered constantly around the McPherson cabin, spreading cosmic rumors. Beneath that sound, beneath all sounds, was the river. The Yellowstone raged at the rocks that tried to block its way, throwing spray like epithets into the air as it coursed through the rapids upstream. But it regained its temper outside the McPherson cabin, slowing to consider the nature of rocks and river. The channel was deep and contemplative, epiphanies appearing as eddies and then disappearing into the depths for reconsideration. To live near the Yellowstone is to be constantly aware of it. The river feeds, cleanses, slakes the thirst, and soothes the souls of those who live on its banks, but it kills, too, depending on its mood, so always Mac listened.
Silence crept into this room, silence broken only by the faint caw of a magpie. Then the boy remembered the train and the sheriff and Catherine Lang.
Mac had makeshift quarters on a makeshift cot in the pantry. The boy climbed from his cot, shivering a little in the cold air. He pulled on his clothing, double knotting his shoelaces. Easy to stumble in the dark, easier still to step on an untied lace and fall into the darkness.
&
nbsp; He opened the pantry door and stepped into the hall, stopping to stretch and yawn before tiptoeing past the two bedrooms to the front door. He hadn’t slept well that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Galt’s face, blackened by the smoke of the forge. Each time he started to drift toward sleep, he heard Galt hiss.
He stepped tentatively to the front door, hoping the floor wouldn’t squeak, but it was solid oak over pine. It didn’t yield to the boy’s step and give him away.
Stars gave some shape to shadows outside. Mac stepped around the vale, hoping he wouldn’t surprise a rattlesnake, hoping that he wouldn’t see Jack Galt. The sheriff had picked a good place for his home. Steep slopes and cactus and yucca and unstable footing barred the way to intruders. Only the new road offered access.
If Galt came, he would have to come up the road, and the stars and the moon painted the fresh-cut sandstone gold. Galt would stand out on the road like tar on a cement sidewalk.
Still, Mac wasn’t satisfied. He stepped down the road, eyes watching for any rock that might roll and pitch him off the side, ears listening for the buzz of an irritated rattlesnake.
Down the hill, the boy picked up his pace, stopping occasionally to peer into the darkness ahead, to check shadows that seemed to move as a man might if he were up to no good. Cold, the night was, cold enough to send shivers down the boy’s back, but as he walked toward town, his heart pumped faster, warming the boy with blood.
As Mac passed the slough beside the road, a band of blackbirds took flight, fleeing this two-legged creature. The birds seemed to awaken mosquitoes that descended on Mac in a cloud. He swatted at the insects, and they exploded, leaving patches of his own blood drying on his face and neck.
Mac left the mosquitoes behind as he climbed the little hill where Nelly’s place perched, a red light on the porch giving away the nature of Nelly’s business. Tonight the light attracted nothing but a cloud of moths.
He slipped down the hill, leaving Nelly’s behind him, slowing before he crossed the railroad bed. He hesitated for a moment in the shadow of the trees that lined the river bottom, and then stepped on the path he had walked every day of his life in Eagles Nest. A breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and Mac heard hiding men and stalking cougars in that. But it was only the leaves, welcoming him home.
He stepped softly down the trail, stopping often to listen to allow his eyes to probe the darkness. No one. No one was hiding in the shadows, but what about the cabin?
Mac eased toward the cabin, hesitating before stepping into the little clearing that marked the McPhersons’ yard. No groomed foreign grass was this to be cut every Saturday. This was native grass, and it whispered to Mac as he passed.
The boy eased on the step outside the cabin door, freezing when it squeaked. But there was no movement in the cabin announcing an ambush discovered, and Mac opened the door. Nothing was different. Nothing taken. The long blue barrel of his .25-35 rifle winked at him from beside the bed, and Mac felt better knowing it was there.
He left the cabin, slipping along the path following the river east and then south. He wanted to cross the road south of the smithy where the lights of town wouldn’t betray him. It was a pretty night, quiet but for the rustling of leaves and the faint sound of men at the Absaloka saloon, telling and retelling the surprise on the sheriff’s face when he saw his new home. They whispered, too, about how pretty Catherine was, and how lucky the sheriff was to have her, but those whispers were only a murmur on the river bottom.
Mac paused in the shadow of the trees, holding his breath so he could hear any movement he couldn’t see. The roadbed was covered with rock and dust, and the boy placed each step carefully, willing the gravel not to crunch beneath his feet.
The evening zephyrs carried the scent of an irritated skunk. Probably the Johansens’ dog. People made way for that dog, crossing the street half a block ahead of the animal to avoid meeting him. Always he smelled of skunk. The dog lived to kill skunks. Mac had seen him as far as the west hill, tracking the black-and-white-striped animals along the river bottom. Smart dog, Mac thought, to hide his scent behind the scent of his prey. But always Mac wondered what drove the dog to kill skunks.
Mac walked north now, stopping in every shadow to be sure that he wasn’t seen. As he neared Galt’s smithy, his heart beat faster and his throat closed as though Galt had his hands around it and was choking the life from Mac.
Dread put the hairs up on the nape of Mac’s neck. He wanted nothing so much as to walk far enough away from the smithy so he could breathe again, but he had to know that Galt was there and not stalking his mother and Catherine.
The dull, yellow light of a kerosene lamp appeared in the window of the lean-to attached to the back of the shop. Galt was there, all right, and awake. Mac willed his eyes not to look at the window. The lot was strewn with old rusting iron and gravel. If he looked into the light, he wouldn’t be able to see into the darkness at his feet. If he stumbled and fell, he would be at the mercy of a murderer. Mac had seen Jack Galt’s eyes. He hadn’t seen any mercy there.
Mac inched toward the window, peering in. Galt was lying in his bed still, but he was awake. Suddenly a grin crossed the blacksmith’s face, and he began laughing.
The laughter was evil. The force of it pushed Mac backward. He stumbled over a piece of metal, and the clatter was enough to awaken the dead. Mac didn’t care about the noise. He ran from the insanity, toward the west hill and his mother and Catherine.
Galt had awakened that morning in a sweat-drenched bed to the sounds of his mewling. “No, Mamma. Please don’t make me do it, Mamma.”
The dream had carried him back again to a tiny shack at the edge of a Missouri railroad town. Always the dream was black, black as the lean-to. Slivers of light streaming into the lean-to from cracks in the walls and ceiling only sharpened the contrast between black and white.
Galt whimpered as he remembered the dream, how she would dress him in his good clothes, and how he would cry, “No, Mama. Please no.”
She would smile at him then, but the smile stung like the blows from her fists. So he would stand still and let her dress him and save his tears until she locked him in the lean-to again.
He couldn’t see anything from the lean-to at night. There was only the blackness outside, and the blackness inside and the blackness in the little boy’s chest where his heart should be. He would sit in that darkness and listen for the sound of the door opening and the clink of bottle and glass and the whispers between his mother and her guest. Always she called the men guests.
More clinks and whispers and then Mama would stagger to the lean-to’s door. “Here he is,” she would giggle. “Here’s the whore.”
If he had wind enough, he would squeal, “No, Mama, you’re the whore!” But usually he had no breath. Usually he couldn’t breathe or speak or run, and then the doorway would fill with the shape of a man.
Galt the child would stand in the shaft of light from the shack, arms pinioned across his chest in fear. Galt’s tiny fists would flail against the man’s chest and face, and the man laughed with the sport of it. And then there was the pain, that terrible pain, and his mother’s laughter.
A tear trickled down the side of Jack Galt’s face. Why did he dream that dream on July 2, 1912, in Eagles Nest, Montana? He only dreamed that dream after he found his mother hiding in the body of another woman.
He thought he had killed her in that little shack beside the railroad track, but she kept coming back. She tried to hide from him, but always he found her. Galt grinned as he stared at the ceiling. Sometimes a wink gave her away, or the way she walked, or the way that she said hello on the street. Always Jack Galt knew.
And when he found her, he stripped her of the illusion that she wasn’t a whore. When she knew that, when she knew it deep down in her soul, he would take his knife to her. The dreams told him exactly how to cut his mother out of her hiding place in other women. How his mother screamed. Such fierce joy he took in the killing.
Galt’s grin collapsed into a question: Why the dream now?
Always the dream came when his mother had revealed herself to him, but he hadn’t seen his mother in Mary McPherson or any of the women at Nelly’s. It couldn’t be the sheriff’s whore. Galt had stared at Catherine while she stood on the depot platform. Nothing in Catherine Lang reminded him of his mother. He knew he could watch Catherine Lang forever and never see his mother in her.
Galt’s eyes widened as the revelation struck him. It came suddenly and startlingly clear. He had killed his mother’s body in bits and pieces. Only her soul remained. Her soul was hiding in Catherine Lang’s body. Galt had only to kill Catherine Lang to forever banish his mother’s soul to hell. He would be free forever from the she-wolf that had whelped him.
Jack Galt felt like shouting his revelation to the world, to tell them that his trek had ended in Eagles Nest, Montana. That stupid son of a bitch Drinkwalter had been right. “It ends here,” he had said. “It ends here.”
Jack Galt laughed. He clamped his hands over his mouth to stop the noise, but it forced its way through his fingers. He laughed and laughed and laughed.
Then he heard a clatter of metal banging against metal. Leaks Donnan was stirring in the smithy.
Galt climbed from the bed. He cocked his head as he stared toward the door to the smithy. Yes, that was it. Donnan would be useful for the first and only time in his pitiful life.
Galt grinned. Police were no match for him. They were mere mortals hanging on the strings of laws and regulations. Jack Galt was bound by nothing but his mission to kill his mother. Tomorrow it would begin. Tomorrow he would tip the dominoes so that they went clattering toward the inevitable conclusion. Tomorrow he would begin killing Catherine Lang.
26
Mac McPherson had run into the morning. The sun was still hiding behind the eastern horizon, but the Beartooth peaks were already tinged with light. The boy stood gasping at the top of the road to Frank and Catherine’s new home.
