by R. R. Irvine
“Some kind of wild animal,” the mayor added quickly. “A bear. It had to be a bear.”
“This is darn near all that’s left of them,” Timmons said, squinting down at the sack in his lap.
“Four dead men. And you say a bear did something like that. Don’t make me laugh.”
“Do you have a better explanation?” demanded the mayor.
Timmons shrugged. “Strangers shouldn’t go poking around in our mountains.”
Graham quickly rolled down his window. He needed cold air to reinforce reality.
But reality was nowhere to be found, not if what he suspected was true. He wrenched his neck around again to stare at the green plastic bag. Suddenly, its contents were as clear to him as if he had had X-ray eyes.
“Jesus,” Graham breathed. “You’ve got someone’s head in there, haven’t you?”
“You can tell by the shape, huh?” Timmons rattled the plastic with one hand; his other touched his own neck as if to test its strength. “It would take one hell of a jerk to rip a man’s head off like that.”
“No survivors?” Harriet asked as if she’d suddenly tuned in on the conversation. “None at all?”
“There wasn’t enough left to bury,” Timmons responded with obvious satisfaction.
“That’s right,” the sheriff verified. “All three members of the television crew and the Indian.”
Harriet put the car in gear. “This is going to make the biggest front-page story I’ve ever had.”
The mayor took a deep breath. “We’ll have to see about that, Harry.”
Her answering snort of derision would have done credit to a big-city reporter. “You can’t hide what happened. There’s a witness.” She indicated Graham.
“He hasn’t seen anything,” the mayor answered. “Not firsthand.”
“The television network isn’t going to blame you, Hiram. So calm down.” She made a clucking noise but kept staring straight ahead, which was fine by Graham because the blacktop was still corkscrewing down the mountainside toward Moondance.
Timmons reached forward with his free hand and patted Graham’s shoulder. “Yes, you be a witness. You can tell outsiders to keep out of our mountains.”
Graham’s eyes moved from left to right, from the sheriff to councilman to mayor. The three of them could have been posed by some macabre artist, sitting there like men waiting for the worst to happen. No, that wasn’t quite right, Graham thought wryly. The worst that could happen would be for him to paint the scene, him and his artificial hand. Now, that would be macabre.
Timmons glared. Apparently he didn’t like being stared at. But Graham couldn’t help himself, because his artist’s eye had taken hold. The three men were a study in contrast. Sheriff Alden Fisk, tall, muscular, rock-hard physically despite being well into middle-age, looked to be a man of action. Mayor Benyon, on the other hand, was pudgy, younger than Fisk, but the stronger of the two because he had an urgent sense of purpose about him, a hardness that went much deeper than Fisk’s muscles. But it was Timmons, Graham thought, who should have been sheriff. The man, big-boned and wiry, with enormous hands that would have done credit to a professional basketball player, looked capable of violence, looked as if he might even enjoy it.
“Maybe we should have tried to bury them,” the mayor said.
“It was more like a slaughterhouse than a cemetery,” Timmons responded. “I’ll tell you, I’ve never seen anything like it. There were pieces of men strewn around like so much litter.” As he spoke he stared Graham straight in the eye. “I couldn’t tell who was who. Ripped up like that, Indians and white men look alike.”
“Who were they?” Graham asked.
“A film crew from the American Broadcasting Network,” answered the sheriff. “A producer, cameraman, soundman, and our Indian, Yeba Kah.”
“It just doesn’t sound right,” Harriet said. “Yeba Kah knew every animal in these mountains. He wouldn’t let himself get killed by one.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said the mayor. “Accidents happen. You said yourself that the ABN people can’t blame Moondance for what happened.”
Timmons laughed. To escape the man’s eyes, Graham turned around, facing forward in time to see the road straighten as they came off the mountain. Almost immediately the outskirts of Moon-dance came into sight.
“Jack, I don’t want you to take this wrong,” the mayor said, “but I’m going to have to ask you to keep quiet about what you’ve seen and heard here today.”
“You can’t hide four deaths,” Harriet put in.
“We’re not going to hide anything. We just don’t want to set people off before we have enough evidence to tell them exactly what happened. Wild rumors could scare the town half to death.”
Graham looked to Harriet. “That’s true,” she told him. “Moondance needs help. But it’s the TV people Hiram doesn’t want to scare off.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Graham said. “I’m not about to run around town spreading rumors.”
“Good man. There is one more thing though.”
Benyon coughed. “Didn’t you get the town council’s offer to buy your land?”
“He did,” Harriet answered. “But he decided to come out here and live.”
“I see.”
“What I don’t understand,” Graham said, “is why you didn’t buy the place from my uncle if you wanted it so badly?”
“No way,” scoffed Harriet. “Old Lew told the council to take their offer and stuff it.”
“It was the Indian’s fault,” Timmons put in. “He turned Lew against us.”
“What Indian?” Graham asked.
“The one who died out there with the others,” Harriet answered. “Yeba Kah. He and your uncle were as thick as thieves.” She sounded sad, as if the Indian’s loss meant something to her.
What memories Graham had of his uncle didn’t include friendship with Indians. But then all his memories had been colored by his father, who hadn’t spoken to Lew, his brother, in more than twenty years.
“Yeba Kah was not the most popular man in Moondance,” Harriet continued. “He was the one who convinced Lew to hold put against the Hunting Ground.”
“Hunting Ground,” Timmons echoed and rattled the green plastic bag. “I said all along it was a bad idea. You should have listened.” Suddenly his arm shot out, thrusting the green sack toward Graham. For the first time Graham could smell the stench of death. “If you’d taken my advice, they’d still be alive.”
3
ONLY AFTER the station wagon had stopped in front of city hall did Graham begin to relax. He took comfort from the quiet surroundings, from the commonplace that the sudden presence of death had made him come to appreciate.
Yet Moondance wasn’t at all common, especially not in this day and age. Isolation had kept the town small. It was like a relic that had somehow survived the past.
Moondance had been founded in 1859, twelve years after Brigham Young trekked half a continent, finally crossing the Rocky Mountains to descend into the Great Salt Lake Valley.
Each time Graham thought of that feat, or of his own pioneer ancestors, he felt a sense of wonder and pride.
However, there was little pride connected with city hall. It was a plain granite building, three stories, constructed in the last century by the look of it. It would be there when the next century came around.
The trio climbed out of the backseat. Then Mayor Benyon bent down to peer into the front.
“I’ll talk to you later, Harry. You too, Jack. And remember. Not a word to anyone.”
With that, he and the others hurried up the steps of city hall.
Graham stared at Harriet. “What the hell’s going on around here?” he asked.
She sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“You’re new here. You have no right to criticize.”
“I think the slaughter of four men gives me that right. I think every
body in this town has the right to know what happened.”
“We may never know for sure.”
“My God,” he said. “Some journalist.”
“Bears went berserk once in Yellowstone Park.”
“I remember,” he said sarcastically. “That was reported in the papers.”
“Don’t condemn me until you’ve read the next edition of the Ledger. Now, where do you want to go?”
Though wide-awake at the moment, he knew he needed rest badly. “Is there a hotel in town?”
She was watching him closely. “You look like you could use a drink first. Why don’t I fix us one before answering that?”
“All right.” Rest could wait until he learned more about the town that was to become his home.
“But first,” she added, her eyes narrowing, “there’s something I have to know. Are you a member of the church?”
The church. Graham blinked in amazement as he remembered how it was in Utah. Only here did people ask questions like that. Here, the church meant the Mormon Church.
He shook his head no.
“I didn’t think so,” she said. “But then, it’s always best to ask the big question.” She put the station wagon in gear.
It was that question which had caused the irreparable schism between his father and uncle. It had been Lewis, as a deacon of the Mormon Church, who thought it his duty to proselytize constantly, even to his own brother.
Graham recalled Lewis as a stark man, with a face gothic enough to give a painter like Grant Wood second thoughts. Lew believed that he alone knew the true path; he followed it without deviation, fearing for all those who refused to tread along with him. Those who remained outside the church, he said often, would forever be denied the kingdom of heaven. It was such a comment nearly thirty years ago, when Graham was only eight, that put an end to brotherly contact. But then, Graham’s father hadn’t been a man to give either. To him, hell was of your own making, and Lewis was a champion at that.
Harriet stopped the car in front of a one-story brick building a block down from the city hall. A sign over the door read “The Moondance Ledger, serving a population of over 3,000.”
“I make a mean whiskey sour,” she said.
“You really are a sinner.”
“Even here in the heart of Mormon country, there are a few of us. Most are undercover though. Closet sinners, you might say.”
He was beginning to like her, despite her sometimes dour manner.
“It’s great to be back in Utah,” he said.
She smiled at that, really smiled. But she allowed the expression to die too quickly.
“In California people don’t seem to care about much of anything. Certainly not religion. But here—I might as well call it home now—I remember you’re either for the church or against it. Nobody sits on the fence.”
“Except maybe me. I’m not for or against. I try to accept things they way they are, that’s all.”
“If it works for you, it ought to work for me. I don’t plan on making any waves.”
“But you will,” she said. “You’re an outsider. Me, I’ve lived here all my life. People accept me like part of the landscape. You, you’ve got trouble right out front. Old Lew had a lot of people in this town riled up. And with you deciding to live here, nothing’s changed. They’ll be after you, just like they were him.”
“Would you explain that?”
“You’ll have to sample my bartending first.”
As soon as he accepted the whiskey sour, she decided that he must have been right-handed. After all, his left was certainly shaky enough. Staring at it, she couldn’t help wondering how well she’d be able to cope if she lost one of her own hands.
Graham used his left hand to fit the glass between plastic-looking fingers and then said, “A new hand takes some getting used to, but then, I don’t have much of a choice.” He drank carefully, without spilling.
He had a face, she decided, to match the mountains of Moondance: craggy, angular, with a gaunt, haunted look that seemed to stretch his skin and soul to the breaking point. His blue eyes were surrounded by a network of grayish lines and wrinkles; in fact, his entire face had a blue-gray cast, as if it had been denied sun too long. His sandy hair was cut so short that his ears looked exposed, and therefore overly large. Only his artificial hand was a healthy pink. Furtively, she studied her own hands. They were rough, not well manicured, but then, she had a newspaper to run.
She put down her drink and flexed the fingers of her right hand. Suddenly she realized what she was doing, that he, too, would know she was wondering what it was like to have an artificial hand. She snatched up her glass.
He smiled over the rim of his glass. It was a cheerless expression, exhaustion overruling everything else in his face.
Say something, she thought. Something comforting. Tell him there are worse things to lose than a hand. But she said nothing, because she feared her words would hurt instead of soothe.
She finished her drink, wishing she could swallow the guilt she felt because he’d caught her staring at his hand.
“Another?” she asked.
“No, thank you. I’d better be going.”
But he made no move. Instead, he asked, “Are the presses back there?” He nodded at the plain wooden door at the back of the narrow office.
“No. Originally, this building was meant to house everything, including presses. But I can’t afford that kind of equipment, so I’ve turned the back into my apartment. Besides, the Ledger only comes out once a month. That gives me plenty of time to have it printed in Salt Lake. In the winter sometimes, the paper comes out late because the road is closed and I can’t get into Kamas to pick it up. But nobody minds.”
“Do you make a living at this?”
The question startled her, since it was rather personal, at least according to her standards.
He must have sensed her reaction because he said, “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”
She found herself answering anyway. “Everything is free and clear so I manage to get by.”
“Let me do my bit to keep the Ledger solvent. Sell me a copy of your latest issue. I’m looking for a car, a used one preferably.”
“In case you don’t remember, the road leading to your uncle’s place is dirt, half a mile of it. You’ll need something with four-wheel drive if you don’t want to spend half your time stuck in the mud.”
“It’s been a long time. I’d forgotten what it was like out in the sticks.”
“Sticks is right. And it’s not just mud you’ll have to contend with. In the winter nothing moves around here without four-wheel drive and chains.”
“What do you suggest?”
“A Jeep. And I know where one’s for sale. You won’t even have to buy a paper to find it.”
He held up his artificial hand. “I’m going to need automatic transmission.”
She’d already thought of that, but she didn’t say so. She merely nodded. “Del Timmons has an ad coming up in the next issue. His asking price is three thousand, but you ought to be able to get it for two.”
“Is it in good condition?”
“Machinery, Del’s good with. Now people . . . that’s another matter. You might be better off if I drove you out there.”
“How far is it?”
“A mile. A little less.”
“The walk will do me good.”
She felt a momentary stab of annoyance. Didn’t he want her help?
“What I need right now,” he said, “is a place to clean up. Is there a hotel in town?”
“There’s Bridger House. Two blocks down.” She wouldn’t offer to drive him, not again. If he wanted to lug his two suitcases that far, that was up to him. If he didn’t, he’d have to ask for her help now. “We passed it coming into town. On Brigham Street. Brigham at Heber.”
“I might as well get started then. Thank you for the drink.”
“I’ll give you a hand with your suitcases,” she sai
d without thinking.
Damn, give him a hand. That’s it. Put your foot in your mouth.
“Don’t bother,” he said stiffly. He nodded and walked outside.
After a moment she went to the window and watched him struggling to extract the suitcases from the back of the station wagon.
“Stubborn,” she said out loud. “Stubborn and unwilling to accept help.”
She smiled then. Jack Graham was a little more than stubborn. He was trouble, especially when it came to the town council’s plans for the Hunting Ground.
“Welcome to Moondance,” she said as he finally managed to remove his suitcases.
Stubborn, yes. But no fool, not by a long sight. And he was not the sort of man to be pushed. She hoped that the mayor had sense enough to realize that.
4
BRIDGER HOUSE was two stories of brick faded to the color of old wood. It had a turn-of-the-century look about it, the perfect subject to paint. Only it would take a good right hand to do the building justice. For that matter it might take the good right hand of an Andrew Wyeth.
Large plate-glass windows, scratched until they were almost opaque, ran the entire length of the ground floor, which, in addition to the lobby, included a cafe on one side of the entrance and a Western Auto Parts on the other.
A row of small, square windows spread across the top floor. Each had its yellow shade half-drawn, like sleepy lids drooping over weary eyes. Indeed, Graham felt as if he were being watched as he pushed through the door into the hotel. As he did so, he banged his good left arm on the jamb and dropped his case full of painting gear. When he’d retrieved it, he realized that he was being watched by the old-timers clustered in the lobby.
He nodded at them vaguely, then approached the unmanned desk with what he hoped was some semblance of dignity. After standing there a moment, he dropped the bags on the floor, suddenly too tired to care about appearances. He felt sweaty. His heart was pounding violently; it seemed to echo in the lobby.
“It’s the altitude,” someone said. He turned around and saw a bearded man approaching the desk. He was young by comparison to their audience in the lobby. “We’re more than a mile high here.” A squeaky voice made mockery of his lumberjack face. “We heard there was a stranger in town.” He gazed toward the gallery as if seeking confirmation. “Came in with young Harry, we heard.”
