Black Pine Creek

by David Haynes

  Draper held his hand up. “Just wait.” He crouched down and looked under the camper. There was nothing there except for a few twigs and dirt. He pushed the dirt aside but he already knew it had gone. A cold chill ran down his neck and it wasn’t the rain that caused it.

  He stood up, wiped his hands down his jeans and checked his watch. It was six forty-five. Just a couple of hours had passed since he’d thrown the leg bone under the van. In that time, a wolf had gone under there and dragged it out.

  “What’s wrong?” Mercer was staring at him. There was no way he could miss the concerned look on Draper’s face.

  “I got up earlier to make coffee and just over there,” he pointed toward the kitchen, “I found a leg bone, complete with scrap of denim still attached. I put it under the camper for safe keeping, till I called the cops again. It’s gone.”

  Mercer exhaled, a thin vapor trail sailed away from his mouth. “A bit too brazen for my liking.”

  “Thought I heard it too. Watching me from over there.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Think maybe we need a bit of protection? Just for a few days, show ’em who’s in charge around here. Can’t have ’em taking liberties with us.”

  Draper thought about his Beretta. “I think so. This place has been deserted for so long they’ve made it theirs. A few days of us banging about and they’ll soon get the message.”

  Mercer was staring at the treeline. “I’ll have a word with Flynn, let him know to keep his eye out.”

  “Nice and quiet though. I don’t want Vinson going all apocalyptic on us again.”

  “You boys coming or what?” Puckett shouted. He was standing on the porch with a pan of steaming eggs in his hand.

  “Old Flynn’s just about eaten a whole farm’s worth.”

  There was an indiscernible response from Flynn as Puckett turned and disappeared inside.

  *

  Just after noon, the clean-up process started. The first one of the season was always an exciting time. It was when they all started making money and the miners could see how much their percentages were worth. A good clean-up here and everyone would be motivated for the next week; a bad one and they would start wondering if their boss knew what he was doing.

  This one was different. It was a bonus. They were clearing up what had been left and anything they got out of it was money in the bank. Puckett talked non-stop at both him and Flynn while they worked. Neither of them needed instructions about what to do.

  Before Puckett lifted the riffle bars off, he examined what was there.

  “Nice little nugget!” He picked it out and held it up for the others. “A few more like that too. Never seen anyone leave gold in the box like this. Greenhorns, must’ve been.”

  Draper nodded and helped Flynn lift the bars to expose the carpet beneath. This was where the gold was trapped – the miner’s moss as they called it. They rolled the lengths up and placed them carefully into the waiting containers of creek water. They would wash the carpet like clothes, squeezing them to get every single ounce out and into the concentrate. One of them, probably Flynn, would take the concentrate and feed it through the wave table up at the camp to separate the gold. Cook it off to dry it then weigh it up. It never failed to give him butterflies.

  The final section of carpet was loaded into the buckets. Puckett and Flynn started hauling them back up to camp. It would be easier and faster to have the table down here next to the plant, but the table needed to sit at a specific angle to separate the gold. The previous occupants had put a concrete slab down under the table to make sure they didn’t lose any. It made sense to leave it where it was.

  “Mike!” called Draper. Vinson was lifting one of the buckets with obvious strain. “I’ll take that. Can you have a look at the shaker? Looks like it’s canting over slightly on one side.” He pointed at the very top of the plant where the rocks got their first wash and shake to begin the separation process. The forces exerted on it were immense as it vibrated hundreds of times a minute. The plant was new and breakdowns happened, but keeping on top of things at this early stage could prolong the season.

  Vinson stood next to him looking up. “I’ll get on it.”

  “Good man.” He started to walk away but Vinson grabbed his arm.

  “Look, about last night, I’m sorry about that. Been a long day.”

  “Don’t worry about it. No problem.”

  Vinson looked genuinely embarrassed. “Biblical, though? No idea where that came from.”

  “I did wonder.” Draper laughed and patted him on the back. “Give it the once-over while we’ve got time and then take one of the excavators up to Ray.”

  He grabbed a bucket and walked to the camp. If Vinson had discovered the bone this morning, how biblical would he have found it, Draper wondered?

  The rain continued on and off throughout the day, making a mud-bath of the site. Draper drove one of the rock trucks up to the new cut. Pairing Mercer with Meg clearing the cut worked on every level he could think of. She was strong, that much was clear, and she’d worked Puckett out right away but she was still a rookie. Mercer was the best driver, the hardest worker and the toughest taskmaster he knew. She was learning from the best. He also trusted Mercer more than anyone else. He trusted him to look out for her. It was clear he wasn’t going to be allowed.

  He drove down into the cut. Huge banks of overburden had been stripped off and pushed to the creek side. But he was more interested in the layers that were now revealed. In the old cut, the one they had just finished processing, the bedrock was clearly visible. If they dug deeper they could extract more, but with that came the risk of damage to the plant. The larger rocks would inflict more strain on all parts of the process. Unless Flynn came back with an astronomical amount of recovered gold, they needed to move on.

  He climbed down out of the cab. Meg and Mercer were over the far side of the cut, moving backward and forward in unison. He had no doubt that every so often Mercer would bark some command or other at her. He did it to everyone.

  The base of the cut was muddy like everywhere else but it wasn’t just mud. There were rocks everywhere, some partially submerged in the dirt and some sitting proud. The exposed layers on the bank indicated that Mercer and Meg had already gone through a layer of gravel and dark sand. The cut ran adjacent to the last one and he would expect the bedrock to be at a similar depth. It looked like they were exactly where they needed to be. Not everywhere, but there was enough exposed to begin processing.

  Draper climbed back into the cab and took his gold pan. He pushed a mound of dirt and rocks into it using his hands and got back into the truck. Drill holes were all well and good but he wanted to pan it himself before he started processing it.

  He drove back toward the creek, passing Vinson who was gathering overburden in the excavator and trying to form a road to the new cut. It would take him a long time at the pace he was moving. Draper held up a hand in recognition but Vinson didn’t see him, his face was screwed up in concentration. He parked the truck up beside the dormant plant and gathered up the pan. He hadn’t been down to see their water source yet, or the pump. Panning the dirt down there would give him the ideal opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

  He followed the pump’s hose toward the pond. The ground sloped away quite sharply as the creek swung around on itself then turned away again. In the great curves it was shallow enough to walk across but once clear it powered away, rumbling and angry about the delay.

  The license in Burgess’s pack allowed them to divert the flow to fill the holding pond. A dike had been formed out of dirt holding the creek back, but periodically they could break it to flood the pond again.

  It was beautiful down here. Even in the thin incessant rain, it was a haven. The camp was a gloomy place bordered by the black pines on all sides but this was another world. Without the trees, daylight flooded down and gave the place a feeling that they were actually part of the summer and not some dank nowhere-land cut off
from the world. Which he supposed was actually closer to the truth.

  He had sought out places like this after Delta Junction… after he had killed Tom Briggs and Neil Evans. He knelt down and sluiced water through the pan. No matter how many times he told himself it hadn’t been his choice, he couldn’t escape the undeniable truth of the matter. He had pulled the trigger. Not once, not even twice but half a dozen times. They may have pushed him toward it; they may have even taken away almost all other elements of control he had at that moment and left him with that one option – shoot or don’t shoot. But he had chosen and they were both dead. That was how it was.

  He swirled the water around the pan carefully. Tilting it to just the angle he instinctively knew was correct, allowing the larger stones to fall over the edge. Around and around, patiently, slowly until all that was left were flecks of color left against the black sand. He counted them up. Ten decent-sized flakes and at least twenty of the finer colors. It was a good pan. The drill holes were good.

  Draper stood up again and took a last look at the scene. It was a slice of paradise but it helped to bring back the thoughts that turned him into a hermit for the last two years. He couldn’t afford to come back here again. Not if he valued his sanity.

  “Oh, sorry!”

  Draper jumped. Vinson was standing right in front of him. They had nearly bumped into each other.

  “Mike,” Draper smiled. “Sorry, miles away.”

  “Me too. Nice down here isn’t it?” Vinson nodded at the river and the mountains in the distance.

  “Certainly is.” Draper didn’t turn around. He noticed the toolbox Vinson was holding. “Anything wrong?”

  “Not sure if the pump’s sucking air.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you get on with it.”

  They sidled past each other awkwardly. The pump wasn’t even running, so how could it be sucking in air? He pushed it aside. He was looking for problems where they didn’t exist.

  He pressed the talk button on the walkie-talkie. “Good colors on the new cut! We start processing tomorrow.”

  Puckett whooped down the radio. “Looking good up here too, boss.”

  “I’m on my way,” Draper replied. It was going well. If it weren’t for the little niggling feeling tickling the back of his head, it might be perfect.

  *

  “Forty-four ounces.” Draper held the jar up for everyone to see. They were sitting in the kitchen after finishing dinner. “Just after fifty grand’s worth.”

  “Yeah!” shouted Puckett. He ran around the mess hall giving everyone high-fives. He was a fool but his enthusiasm was infectious. It was a good start and would keep them in fuel for a week or two but it wasn’t enough, not by a long chalk.

  “So, we ready to start on the new cut tomorrow?”

  “The ‘Resurrection Cut’, you mean?” Mercer winked at him.

  “I’m not sure about...” Draper started.

  “Sounds biblical,” Vinson cut in with a stony expression.

  For a moment the room was silent. Draper didn’t know him well enough to work out if it was serious or not. Then Vinson started laughing. “Bad joke.”

  “You can make breakfast for everyone now!” Puckett shouted. “I think I’m gonna call you ‘Preacher’ from now on, Vinson. Vinson the Preacher’s got a nice ring to it.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt you to read the Bible, Puckett. Wouldn’t harm you at all,” Flynn said.

  Puckett turned on him. “Like you, you mean? Man, I’ve seen the literature in your camper and it’s not of the religious persuasion, that’s for sure. Not unless Jesus was into some kinky shit.”

  “What you got there, Flynn? Something tasty?” Mercer asked.

  Flynn shook his head and sighed. “It’s just Puckett’s wild imagination getting the better of him again. Ain’t nothing like that in my camper.”

  The conversation went back and forth between the men, but in all that time Meg hadn’t taken her eyes off the jar of gold. Not once. She’d had the same expression on her face the first time she saw gold like that. The same look had been in Draper’s eyes too. They were more alike than she cared to admit.

  12

  The first crack sounded like thunder. The second and third were definitely gunshots. The sound was unmistakable.

  Draper tumbled out of another bad dream and pulled on some clothes. He took the Beretta from the locker by his bed, trying to focus. He didn’t check the time but it was still dark outside which meant it was before three. He barged through the door and almost fell into the night.

  Where had the shots come from?

  In answer, two more rang out to his left – beyond Mercer’s camper. As soon as he started walking, he almost bumped into Mercer who stumbled out trying to pull a t-shirt over his head with one hand. In the other was a rifle.

  “Who?” he asked.

  Draper shrugged and rushed past him. Not Meg, he thought, please not Meg. But as he reached Puckett’s tired old truck, he stopped. There was movement to his left, just short of the treeline. A flash from the barrel of whatever gun was being fired illuminated the area around the shooter. Just for that split-second he recognized Puckett’s shaggy blond hair.

  He drew the Beretta and released the safety. Behind him he heard Mercer’s heavy steps and a loud click as he readied his weapon.

  “What is it?” He stood beside Puckett, holding the Beretta in two hands and pointing it at the ground.

  Puckett didn’t move, he was pointing his handgun into the dark expanse of trees. It was nothing but shadow. There was little light from the moon as a low and heavy cloud gathered in the sky. There were no stars tonight.

  The barrel of Mercer’s rifle appeared next to Draper’s face. Mercer was staring down the sights.

  “Too dark,” he said and lowered it.

  Draper heard more footsteps and looked over his shoulder. Flynn and Vinson were behind them. No sign of Meg though. That was good, she was better off inside.

  He turned back around. “Puckett?”

  “I saw, I mean I think I saw... a wolf, gotta be a wolf. Big bastard too.”

  “Think?” asked Mercer.

  “Heard it anyway.” Puckett lowered his gun and looked at them both. “Under the camper, right under my bed, eating something. Grinding bones, scratching at the earth, and then slopping down something jelly-like. Slurping at it. Man, it was creepy!”

  “Not one of your stories, is it?” Flynn called from behind. “’Cos it ain’t funny dragging a man out of his bed at this time.”

  Puckett turned around but there wasn’t the slightest trace of levity on his face, or in his voice. “No joke,” he said.

  “A dream then, one of your vivid dreams? One of those where you save Daisy Duke from the big bad monster and she gets real appreciative, maybe?”

  Puckett shook his head slowly as if he was trying to put his thoughts back together.

  “Dream?” he asked. “I... no.” And then with certainty: “No dream.”

  A wind blew across the camp making the trees sway and groan, but otherwise everyone and everything was still.

  “Headed into the trees, I guess. Wolf would be long gone by now. Just the one?” Mercer asked.

  “Yeah. I mean, I think so. Hard to tell. I couldn’t see properly. There was movement in there.” He pointed at the trees with his gun. “Like a shape, a dark shape. I don’t know, man, it felt like it was watching me. Sizing me up or something. That’s why I started shooting.”

  Puckett shivered. He was bare-chested and wasn’t wearing any footwear.

  “Better get back inside.” Draper patted him on the shoulder. He turned to Mercer. “Take that rifle and have a look in the morning, shall we?”

  Mercer nodded and yawned. “Sounds like a good idea.”

  Flynn was crouching down with a flashlight, shining it under Puckett’s camper. “Nothing under here now.”

  “If there ever was,” Vinson whispered. Draper looked around at the others. He hoped nobody else had hear
d it, especially Puckett. Now wasn’t the time for dealing with a fight.

  Mercer walked Puckett back to his van and the others returned too. Draper stood for a moment and watched the forest. It was strange. He still had the feeling he was being watched. It was the same feeling he’d had yesterday morning outside the saloon.

  As he turned, he saw Meg standing to the rear of her camper. Their eyes were locked briefly together. She turned away without saying a word.

  *

  “Does Meg carry a gun?” he asked Mercer in the morning.

  Mercer shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”

  Draper thought for a moment. “Maybe she needs one up here. If we’ve got a pack roaming about the claim, and God knows what else, it’d make sense for us all to be carrying.”

  “Maybe,” Mercer replied. His response was noncommittal.

  “You don’t agree?”

  “I don’t know. The more people we’ve got carrying, the more likely things go wrong. Your call though.”

  Draper nodded. He’d put that decision to bed for now. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about. The last thing he wanted was for his daughter to have anything to do with firearms.

  They walked side by side into the forest. The previous day’s rain had gone but it was replaced by a heavy humidity that brought the mosquitoes out in swarms. Draper felt sweat beading on his chest. The rain had made a mess of the camp and the Resurrection Cut now had a pond which covered nearly a quarter of the base. Everyone except him and Mercer were working on it at the moment.

  Puckett hadn’t shown any hangover from the early-hours excursion. His comments about Vinson’s attempt at making breakfast put everyone at ease. He sat next to Meg again as he always did at meal times, but Draper noted an interesting thing. Puckett’s loudmouth crudeness dropped a notch and occasionally, just occasionally, he seemed to be having an earnest conversation with her. He still didn’t like it but knew there was precious little he could do about it.