The Devil's Breath

by R. R. Irvine

  “Your uncle’s heyday. Way back.”

  “And since then?”

  “Moondance has merely been limping along. Come to think of it, it’s more like a stumble. When the inevitable fall comes, it’s likely to be fatal.”

  Harriet looked up, blinked, then went back to studying her hands.

  “Farming here is marginal,” Benyon continued. “And the old mines aren’t worth working anymore. As for logging, it’s strictly controlled by the government.”

  Since no comment occurred to Graham, he settled for a nod.

  But that seemed to satisfy the mayor, who went on eagerly. “So it all comes down to one thing—survival. As of now, Moondance is shrinking. Our young people are leaving and who can blame them? There’s nothing here for them, no future.”

  “You’re forgetting peace and quiet,” Graham said.

  “That’s a luxury. Survival is a necessity.”

  “Is that the way you see it?” Graham asked Harriet.

  “The town needs money,” she answered without looking up. “The Hunting Ground seems like the best way of getting it.”

  “Our only chance,” the mayor amended.

  “Won’t the government have something to say about killing off the game?”

  “The Hunting Ground is private property, my boy. There are elk and deer around here that you wouldn’t believe. Bear, too, for that matter. Big ones.”

  “What about Indians?”

  They both stared at him as if he’d gone crazy.

  “There was one here just a few minutes ago.” Graham pointed toward the front window. “The dog barked, and then I saw him out there, spying on me.”

  Harriet leaned forward and looked Graham straight in the eye. “What did he look like?”

  Carefully, Graham described the man he’d seen.

  All the while she kept nodding her head. Finally, she nudged the mayor and said, “It sounds like Yeba Kah to me.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “I don’t know of any other Indians around here.”

  The mayor’s answer was to squint suspiciously at Graham. It was the kind of look Graham would have used on a madman.

  “I’m not saying I’ve seen a dead man, for Godssake. But I saw someone.”

  “Yeba Kah was a friend of Lew’s,” said Benyon.

  The mayor stood up to pace. After a moment he said, “Maybe it wasn’t an Indian at all. Maybe just someone from town snooping.”

  “He looked like an Indian.”

  “You said he was wearing Levis and a plaid shirt. The description fits half the people in town.”

  Graham didn’t bother arguing. Instead, he smiled at Harriet. She returned only a grimace. Even so, he found himself attracted to her. She was one of those women whose beauty wasn’t mere surface gloss. She wouldn’t dull with age.

  Shotgun seemed to agree, because the dog curled up at her feet and went to sleep.

  The mayor sat down again. “We didn’t come out here to talk about nosy neighbors. We have more important things to discuss.” He took out his pipe and studied it. “I’ll be honest with you, Jack. We need your help. You see, the townspeople have pooled every acre of available land, prime acreage for our Hunting Ground. We want to add your twenty-five acres to the pot. Once that’s done, we’re set to go. Why, I’ve even gotten a special bill through the state legislature giving us a free hand here on our own land.”

  “I’m impressed,” Graham said. “How much did you have to pay the politicians to let you wipe out the wildlife?”

  “Don’t be foolish. We intend to charge enough to make a nice profit, more than enough to keep the land stocked with game.”

  “Somehow, I’m not convinced. But then I never did like butcher shops.”

  “There’s something you’d better know. Our Hunting Ground surrounds your land on three sides, everywhere except toward the highway.”

  Graham glanced at Harriet. She took a map from her purse and showed it to him. “You’re practically under siege,” she said, outlining his position with the tip of her finger.”

  What Graham saw was a position that looked damn near untenable. His next words pinched out through clenched teeth. “Just what do you want, Benyon? My land or my soul?”

  Before the mayor had time to reply, Graham continued. “If I put my twenty-five acres into your hopper, I’ll have to leave here. If I don’t, some trigger-happy hunter might mistake me for a deer.”

  “We wouldn’t want you to take any chances.” A saccharine smile played over the mayor’s lips.

  Harriet shifted restlessly.

  “Where the hell would I live?” Graham asked.

  “We’ll pay top dollar for your land. You can use the money to buy closer into town, somewhere where the land is useless for hunting. If you insist on staying in Moondance, I’ll personally find you a place. There’s an empty house near Del Timmons right now.”

  “Swell. My dog will love that.”

  “Your other choice,” the mayor went on, “is to build a fence completely around your twenty-five acres. It ought to be at least six feet high. Otherwise . . .”

  “Otherwise I become extinct.”

  “That won’t happen,” Harriet said. “If anything, Jack, it’ll be the other way around.”

  “I’ll do the talking,” snapped the mayor.

  “Don’t try ordering me around like the rest of the council, Hiram. It won’t work.”

  “Harry, I—”

  She waved him off. “Jack, it’s you who have Moondance over a barrel. The town . . . we need your acreage to make the Hunting Ground complete.”

  At her words, Benyon’s pipe cracked between his teeth.

  “The best access to the Hunting Ground,” Harriet continued, “is through your land. Maybe you don’t realize it, but your road goes right on past the house here to the end of your property. It butts right up against the Hunting Ground. Without your road, we’ve got big trouble.”

  “I don’t think I understand,” Graham said.

  “It’s like this. We’ve had to apply to the federal government to build a new access road through the Uinta Primitive Area. Approval could take a long time. More time than we’ve got. And even if we get it, we don’t have the money for a new road. So you’re our only hope.”

  Graham chuckled although he wasn’t the least bit amused. “You mean, I’m surrounded by the Hunting Ground, but the Hunting Ground in turn is surrounded by federal land?”

  “Yes,” Benyon answered, his voice a whisper. “I admit it. We need you. In two days, the TV boys will be here to start filming. You come in with us now and you’ll get a full share of the profits.”

  “How long is the hunting season?”

  “Five months. No more. We can’t count on decent weather much before June. And by the first of November, winter can come on anytime without warning.”

  “Where are you going to house all these hunters?”

  “Bridger House to begin with. We’ve already got an architect’s plan to add another floor if need be.”

  “Jack,” Harriet said gently, “I understand how you feel. You came here expecting peace and quiet and—”

  “I came here expecting to be left alone.”

  She flushed.

  “Look, do you think we like this?” asked the mayor.

  “Yes,” Graham answered, then shook his head. “But you haven’t thought your plan through. What’s this kind of prosperity going to do to your town? You’ve going to have a bunch of drunken hunters on your hands.”

  “We know there will be problems,” said the mayor. “But the town has already committed twenty-five thousand dollars to subsidize the network’s basic production costs. Luckily, ABN is paying the star’s salary. And we’re getting one of the biggest names in television—Jimmy Keene.”

  “He has millions of viewers,” Harriet added. “Millions of people who’ll see our Hunting Ground.”

  Graham rubbed his right wrist. “Moondance will never be the same again
.”

  Benyon’s eyes lit up, “Change means survival. Besides, it’s only a few months each year.”

  Graham groped for a way out. He hated pain, but whatever his decision now, someone or something was going to suffer.

  Harriet moved to his side. “Please, Jack. There are so many people counting on you.” She touched his shoulder.

  “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  She snatched back her hand. “And why don’t you think of someone besides yourself for a change?”

  There was a long silence before Mayor Benyon spoke. “Well, Jack, are you with us or against us?”

  More than anything, Graham wanted to tell Mayor Hiram Benyon to go to hell. But Graham’s impulse died when he saw the pleading look on Harry’s face.

  He knew he couldn’t say no to her.

  And that wasn’t the only thing he couldn’t say. He couldn’t tell her about the dancing he’d seen in the moonlight, not unless he wanted her to think he was completely crazy. Then again, maybe he was. After all, would a sane man think the Indian who had just been spying on him was the same one who’d been leading that dance?

  11

  “I DIDN’T think it would be that easy,” Benyon told Harry on the way back to town. “I figured he’d be as stubborn as his uncle.” The mayor laughed. “He’s got old Lew’s eye though. That’s for sure.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

  “Why, Harry, the way he was looking at you, of course. Old Lew used to get that same kind of gleam.” He dropped a hand on Harry’s knee. She put it back on the steering wheel.

  Benyon shook his head. “I’m glad we didn’t have to get tough with him.”

  “Don’t underestimate Jack.”

  “I’m not. That’s why I’d already decided to condemn his land if need be.”

  “It would take three votes to get something like that through the council, Hiram. I’m not sure you have that many.”

  “You’re not fooling me, Harry.”

  “Don’t underestimate me either. I might side with Del Timmons if the Hunting Ground ever comes to another vote.”

  “You’re sounding like a typical female now.” He glanced at her. “I’m beginning to think you have hot pants for our Mr. Graham.”

  She told him to go to hell. After that, the rest of the drive was made in silence. She didn’t even say good-bye when she got out in front of the Ledger; she merely slammed the car door and walked away.

  Once her shapely fanny disappeared into the office, he sighed with relief, glad to be rid of the news hen at last. Her cackling got on his nerves. Cackle, cackle, like a brood hen. Hens were good for laying eggs, or just plain laying, and that was all.

  He grinned. Harry’s trouble was that she needed a lay. Women! It wasn’t natural for them to remain unmarried.

  He projected the chicken image further, imagining himself as her appointed rooster, which caused a rapid stirring in his loins. But then, he already had three hen houses to service. One more might kill him. But what a nice way to die.

  Some people, even a few of his friends, condemned his polygamy. It’s your gonads, they said, not religion. The church hasn’t sanctioned it in a hundred years. In some ways they were right. He did like having more than one woman to sleep with. Yet there was more to it than that. There was tradition. Polygamy had been good enough for Benyon’s father, so it was good enough for him.

  Not the most logical reason, he thought, but good enough for a rooster who now had to decide which hen he was going to peck for the night.

  Without coming to a decision, he moved the car down the block far enough to be out of sight of the Ledger. Then he leaned back to think over his options: Joyce, Lee, or Dee-Anne.

  Joyce was not only the youngest, but she lived the closest to where he was parked. Joyce, so lush, and so lousy in bed.

  “Jeez,” he muttered out loud and was sorely tempted to say something stronger. But he restrained himself; he didn’t want to get into any bad habits.

  Before marrying Joyce, Benyon had dreamed about her. And no doubt so had every other man in town. But looks can be deceiving. On their wedding night she told him that sex was for one thing, and one thing only, to have children.

  “Where were you during the sexual revolution?” he had asked.

  Her answer had been to lay down the rules. Foreplay was out of the question.

  Even now it was hard to believe. No sucking those scrumptious tits. No nibbling. No snacks.

  Still, she’d become instantly pregnant. Hiram Benyon, Jr., was now only three months old and already Joyce was taking her temperature, so she could tell her husband when the right time came again.

  And it was tonight.

  He shook his head, imagining what it would be like. Wham, bam, thank you, sir. You’ve done your duty. Now get off of me.

  Darn it! Temperature reading or not, he needed something more. And that narrowed the choice because his first wife, Lee, was out of the question. Although a good mother to their two children, she was as plain as the preserves that she continuously and fastidiously bottled. Fastidious Lee, who’d said to him only yesterday, “I’m out of season for the next five days.” How typical of her, referring to herself as if she were some kind of seasonal fruit.

  That left Dee-Anne.

  With a gleam in his eye Benyon started the car. He hadn’t seen her for a while. Why, shoot, she’d probably be rusty.

  “Well then, she’ll be needing tetanus shots,” he said. It was an old joke, but it suited his mood.

  To reach Dee-Anne’s, he turned right on Heber Avenue and started past the Moondance Cemetery, with its high wrought-iron fence and tall monuments dating back to the year the city was founded. Some people, particularly the younger ones in town, thought of the fence as a barrier between the living and the dead. But to Benyon, there was no barrier at all, only a continuum.

  On impulse he stopped to visit the family plot. Since his last time there, early spring weeds had begun to sprout around the headstones.

  With a sigh, Benyon got down on his knees and began tending the area, starting with his father’s grave. Right next to that lay his mother. Beyond were his grandparents. Aunts and uncles lay further afield, as did the entire Benyon family.

  One day, the mayor expected to rest right alongside them. Anyplace else was unthinkable. That’s what made the salvation of Moondance so critical to him. If the town died, if its people were forced to move away, they would be cut off from their inheritance.

  “Where could we go?” he asked, peering at his father’s headstone. “Look what happened to my first son, your grandson. He moved to the big city, to Salt Lake, and look at him now. Only twenty years old and already he’s divorced.”

  Benyon shook his head. The gesture loosened tears that had been forming at the corners of his eyes.

  “Next thing you know he’ll be leaving the church.”

  Still on his knees, Benyon moved on to his mother’s grave. Even so, it was his father he kept speaking to.

  “It wouldn’t have happened if he’d stayed here where he belongs. But he wouldn’t listen. None of the young ones do.”

  When Benyon finished clearing the weeds from his mother’s grave, he creaked to his feet. He was tired and badly in need of the comfort Dee-Anne could provide.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to his grandparents, “but you’ll have to wait till next time. But I promise you one thing. Moondance isn’t going to die, not if I can help it.”

  Dee-Anne had inherited her small house from her first husband. However, the place had long since been transferred to Benyon’s name. In the event of the mayor’s death, his will gave the house back to her.

  Her children, from her first marriage, had all moved away from Moondance. And that was one of the reasons Benyon treasured his time with Dee-Anne. They could be alone.

  She met him at the door wearing jeans and a loose shirt. At forty-nine she was eight years older than Benyon. Yet in some ways, Dee-Anne was th
e most youthful of his wives. The most beautiful, too, despite her graying hair. Without trying, she had retained a lithe figure, though that was not what attracted him as much as her face, which was deeply tanned and webbed with wrinkles, particularly around the eyes. But what wrinkles they were—smile wrinkles all. And all creased deeply at the sight of him.

  As he kissed her, he felt lighthearted for the first time all day. He tasted sexual hunger, but it was distant enough to give them time to talk, to have a meal together, to renew their love.

  He even had time to tell her about his doubts, about the lying he’d been forced to do in the name of Moondance. He even wondered out loud if it might not be better to let the town die rather than continue.

  Dee-Anne held him tightly in her strong arms.

  “I’m damning myself,” he told her, “Damning myself to hell.”

  “You’re a good man, Hiram. God will understand.”

  “I hope so,” he whispered. But he didn’t believe it. He was terrified, yet it was too late now to back out. He was committed. Moondance had to survive even at the cost of his own soul.

  ******

  Madness burned in the dog’s eyes, madness and hatred. White foam distorted its muzzle. Its teeth were red with blood, Hiram Benyon’s blood. It was more than a dog; it was a demon; it preyed on Benyon’s every fear.

  Terror jerked the mayor upright in bed. He was sweat-soaked and panting for breath. His heart hammered painfully. He gulped as if to keep the thumping organ in place.

  Then, ever so slowly, he reached out in the darkened bedroom, half-afraid that he would discover saliva-flecked fur rather than skin, half-afraid his nightmare was real. His fingers found one of Dee-Anne’s soft breasts. At his touch, a sigh escaped her. His own sigh came out like a raspy rattle as he eased over on his side and curled around her, taking comfort from her warmth, her smell.

  The nightmare, which had haunted much of his childhood, hadn’t bothered him for years. Then two nights ago it had started again. It was always the same. It had its roots when he and his best friend, DG, short for Dale George, found the dog, a soft brown creature with big wet eyes.