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  Lone Creek

  ( Hugh Davoren - 1 )

  Neil Mcmahon

  Neil McMahon

  Lone Creek

  1

  I'd only ever seen Laurie Balcomb a few times, usually glimpses while I was working and she was passing by on her way to someplace else. I'd never met her or spoken with her. She and her husband were the new owners of the Pettyjohn Ranch, and they didn't socialize with the help.

  But when she came into sight on this afternoon, riding horseback across a hay field, there was no mistaking her even from a quarter mile away. Her hair was auburn shot through with gold, she was wearing a brindle chamois shirt, and the way the sunlight caught her, she looked like a living flame.

  I hadn't paid much attention to Laurie before this, other than to notice that she was a nice-looking woman. The sense I'd gotten from her was subdued, distant. Even her hair had seemed darker.

  But now, for just a second, something slipped in my head-the kind of jolt you got when you were walking down a staircase in the dark and thought there was one more step at the bottom.

  I shook it off and slowed my pickup truck to a stop. This was September, a warm afternoon at the end of a dry Montana summer, and I'd been raising a dust cloud the size of a tornado. I figured I'd let it settle so Laurie wouldn't have to ride through it.

  But instead of passing, she rode toward me and reined up. The horse was one of the thoroughbreds she'd brought out here from Virginia, a reddish chestnut gelding that looked like he'd been chosen to fit her color scheme. Like her, he was fine-boned, classy, high-strung. A couple hundred thousand bucks, easy.

  "Are you in a fix?" she called. She had just enough accent to add a touch of charm. In a fix, I remembered, was Southern for having trouble.

  I pointed out the window toward the thinning dust storm.

  "Trying not to suffocate you," I said.

  "Oh. How thoughtful." She seemed surprised, and maybe amused, to hear that from a man in sweaty work clothes, hauling trash in a vehicle older than she was.

  She walked the restless horse closer, stroking his neck to soothe him. She handled him well, and she knew it.

  "So you men are-what's the term-'gutting' the old house?" she said.

  The truck's bed was loaded with bags of lath and plaster, crumbling cedar shakes, century-old plumbing, the skin and bones from the ranch's original Victorian mansion. Nobody had lived there for more than a generation, but the Balcombs had big plans for this place. The mansion was on its way to being restored and turned into a showpiece for the kinds of guests who would buy the kinds of horses that Laurie was riding.

  "That's the term," I said.

  "You're an unusal-looking group. Not what I would have expected."

  "You mean we're not like the guys on New Yankee Workshop?"

  "Well, there do seem to be a lot of tattoos and missing teeth."

  "They're all good at what they do, Mrs. Balcomb."

  "I'm sure they are. And don't misunderstand me-I think they're charming."

  That opened my eyes. I'd heard my crew called a lot of things, but none of them involved words like charming.

  "I'll pass that on," I said. "They'll be knocked out."

  "So why are you here all alone on a Saturday?"

  I shrugged. "Only chance I get to be the boss."

  Her smile was a quick bright flash that shone on me like I was the one important thing in the world.

  "You look like you could be bossy," she said. Then she caught herself up as if she'd slipped. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be impolite."

  I was confused, and it must have shown.

  "That scar," she said. "It's like on a villain in an old-fashioned movie."

  My left hand rose of its own accord and my thumb touched the raised, discolored crescent that topped my cheekbone. It wasn't something I ever thought about any more. The touch broke loose a run of sweat from the hollow under my eye down my nose. It itched like hell, and while I knew that scratching was bad manners, I couldn't help myself. My hand came away smeared with plaster dust and red chalk.

  "Just a low-rent injury and a surgeon with a hangover," I said.

  She smiled again, but this time she seemed a little disappointed.

  "You could come up with a more interesting story," she said. "Think about it." She turned the gelding away and eased him into a trot with her boot heels.

  I gave her a hundred yards lead on my dust cloud, then drove on.

  "Interesting" wasn't in my job description.

  2

  A mile farther on, the hay fields gave way to timber. I started to glimpse the sparkle of Lone Creek, draining down from the continental divide to the Missouri River. Even in dry years, it always flowed swift and cool. If you followed it upstream, you came to a little waterfall that spilled into a swimming hole. I'd hung out there a lot as a kid, but I hadn't been back since the summer I turned fourteen-almost twenty-five years, now that I thought about it. A quarter of a century, one-third of a good long life, ago.

  I'd worked on this ranch that summer, for the first and last time until now. My family weren't the social equals of big landowners like the Pettyjohns-my father was an ironworker, my mother a schoolteacher, and we lived in a modest house in nearby Helena-but my dad had gotten to be pretty good friends with the clan's head, Reuben Pettyjohn, with the common bond that they'd both fought in Korea. We were welcome on the ranch, and I came out here every chance I got, to fish or wander in the woods. The men finally decided that they might as well put me to use.

  That same summer, a girl named Celia Thayer had come to live with us. She'd grown up near my family's hardscrabble old homestead near the Tobacco Root range, which my father's brother was still working. She was usually around, hanging out with my cousins, when we went to visit.

  Celia was a year and some older than me, just turning sixteen then. Supposedly, her parents decided that she'd benefit from living in Helena-it was the state capital, and with a population of about thirty thousand, one of the few places in Montana that could be called a city. But I eventually figured out that she was already too much to handle for those people from an older world, living in the middle of nowhere. My older sisters were gone, one married and one in college, so we had room. Celia's folks worked out a deal with mine to board her at our house while she finished high school.

  She was glad to leave her bleak home behind, except that she was crazy about horses, and already an expert rider. So my dad arranged for her to work on the Pettyjohn Ranch along with me that summer, helping in the stables. She could ride to her heart's content and make some money, too.

  I was a typical gawky, terminally shy boy of that age. The issue of girls was just starting to appear as a haze on the horizon of my life, portending the coming storm. Celia fascinated me, but what I felt was more like worship than desire. Even as a little girl, she'd been the bright light in any group, pretty and compelling. At sixteen, she was flowering, with a tough, sultry beauty and a ken that sometimes seemed much older. I was bewildered, humbled, and scared by her.

  But what drew me to her most powerfully was my belief that there was a special intimacy between us-that some deep part of her was lonely, wistful, and hurt, and that she showed it only to me. Maybe I only imagined it. I sure learned the hard way that when she did, she could be like a cat offering its belly for petting, then sinking its fangs into your hand when you tried.

  While Celia worked with the ranch's horses, I started on the haying crew, two months of killing labor from dawn to dusk. But things relaxed after the first cut was in, and I went to taking care of general chores. Nobody cared if I sneaked away for a swim at the waterfall, so I did it almost every day. Sometimes Celia would come along.

  One particular afternoon, I went there alo
ne. I hadn't seen her earlier, and it never occurred to me that she might show up. I was lazing in the stream, not paying attention to anything, and all of a sudden, she came walking into sight. When she was with me I always swam in my jeans, but when she wasn't, I went in bare, and I'd left my clothes on the rocky bank; I hollered at her to turn around until I could get covered.

  Instead, she beamed that smile at me and said, "Lighten up, we're practically family." She'd always brought a swimsuit before, but not this time. She peeled off her own clothes and stepped in.

  There was no way I could get out of the water after that. I stayed crouched to my chin while she splashed and pranced and tiptoed on the stones like a tightrope walker. She kept talking all along like things were the same as always, just us being kids and goofing around. But I knew that she was doing this on purpose. It was like she was using me as some kind of test, and she was pleased at the result.

  I had plenty of other memories of Celia. A lot of them were painful, and I'd done a good job of burying them. But seeing Laurie Balcomb on that horse-if Celia had lived, she'd look just about like Laurie now.

  3

  The Pettyjohn Ranch's dump was a sea of trash the size of a city block and fifty feet deep, gouged into a section of prairie toward the northeast corner. It held more than a century's accumulation of old refuse, from kitchen slop to sprung mattresses to entire vehicles. There was also plenty of stuff nobody wanted to talk about-refrigerators, asbestos insulation, tons of toxic sludge from fertilizers and pesticides and lead paint, enough to make a private little superfund out in the middle of God's country.

  Officially, it hadn't been used for the past few years-new sanitary codes required that the ranch's refuse was now hauled off to the city landfill. But it saw occasional action on the sly, for things like our construction scrap and items that were inconvenient to get rid of legally.

  I had never known that to include carcasses, but I started catching the first hints of the smell before I could even see the dump-the sickly reek of meat gone bad. The closer I got, the more it filled the pickup's cab, lying like a greasy blanket on the warm afternoon air. The dump always smelled some, like any big collection of garbage. But this was special.

  About fifty yards out, a bunch of crows and magpies were having a party, hopping, fighting, and tearing with their beaks at something buried. Thumb-size horseflies and yellow jackets swarmed around with a buzz I could feel in my teeth. The old D-8 Cat that was used for maintenance was parked off to the side as usual. It wasn't run often these days, but I could make out fresh ridges from its tracks, leading toward the quarreling scavengers.

  The ranch hands must have butchered some cattle, and the remains were ripening in the hazy afternoon heat. It seemed a little strange that they'd take the trouble to bury them-usually they just pitched things over the edge, same as me. But as I drove closer, I could see a hoof sticking up out of the mess.

  That was it, then.

  There was one good thing-the flies were too busy to bother me. I dropped the truck's tailgate and started tossing out my own load of trash.

  The real reason I'd been working alone on Saturdays for the past few months was that I had the job site to myself, without the havoc of a crew around. Every week, I'd try to save a tricky task like cutting stairs or rafters and use Saturday to get through the part that required the most concentration.

  Sometimes my buddy Madbird came along, but he liked the peace as much as I did. He'd take off on his own to work on the wiring, and I'd hardly be aware of him except for the occasional crash of a tool or part being thrown and some muttering in Blackfeet that I assumed was cursing.

  I'd spend the last hour cleaning up and thinking about what was on the slate for Monday, then make this dump run. I'd come to look forward to it. It was the ritual start of the weekend, full of the anticipation of Saturday night before the crash of Sunday morning. And if you ignored the crater of garbage, you couldn't ask for finer country.

  The ranch was about ten miles northwest of Helena, up against the foothills of the Rockies. The view went on forever. This time of year, the larches were turning yellow, big bright splashes on the bottle green slopes. There were no buildings in sight, no sounds in any way human. All in all, it was like the kind of magazine cover that made dentists in Omaha go out and buy a couple thousand dollars' worth of trout fishing gear.

  The original owner was Reuben Pettyjohn's grandfather Nathan, who'd fought with renown in the Civil War but had been on the losing side. Like a lot of his comrades, he'd left the South in disgust when the carpetbaggers invaded and had made his way west. He'd had the good luck and sense to acquire this gold mine of property, roughly fifteen thousand acres of well-watered hay fields, pasture, and timber. His descendants had added lease rights to more big chunks of state and Bureau of Land Management grazing land, and parlayed it all into a network of property and other interests that stretched through Montana and beyond.

  I, on the other hand, was the kind of guy who'd always bought dear and sold cheap.

  I slung the last bag of trash into the pit and gave the truck's bed a quick sweep. Then I paused, realizing that I'd been hurrying, not enjoying this as usual. The reason was that smell. It clung to me like a second skin, putting an unpleasant edginess in my head that was amplified by the buzzing of the insects.

  But there was something else bothersome. I'd kept glancing at that hoof as I unloaded, and now I tried to focus on it through the debris and flapping birds. It seemed oddly shaped.

  And I almost thought I could make out an arc of extra thickness on it, like an iron shoe.

  I told myself I was full of shit, and there was no reason I should care anyway. Even if it was a horse, there was nothing strange about one of those dying on a ranch. There were several working plugs here besides the Balcombs' thoroughbreds, and their passing wouldn't create any stir. I closed the truck's tailgate, got in, and started the engine.

  I switched it off again-honest to God, I don't know why. Maybe because of old habits I'd developed during the years that I'd worked on a newspaper in California, maybe just because of a prickly sense that something was really wrong.

  I rummaged through the spare clothes I carried and found a hooded sweatshirt to cover my head and neck. I made a mask of my bandanna and pulled on a pair of gloves. Then I started picking my way across the pit. The surface felt queasy underfoot, like I was walking on boards laid over quicksand.

  The crows backed up, but not far, and they screamed at me to get off their turf. The flies and hornets stayed, and so did the smell.

  The hoof was shod, all right.

  The short length of foreleg sticking up had been chewed on, probably pulled free by coyotes. It looked like they'd tried to dig down to the rest of the carcass, layered over by a foot or two of junk, but something had stopped them.

  I figured out where the head would be and clawed trash out of the way. A triangular piece of plywood about three feet across was wedged in as a protective covering. Measurements were scrawled on it with a heavy carpenter's pencil.

  I recognized them. I'd written them there myself, framing a gable dormer a couple of weeks earlier. I'd carried the scrap here to the dump, too. But I sure hadn't left it anywhere near this spot, and I couldn't believe that the Cat had dragged it here by accident.

  My uneasiness climbed a notch. Somebody had taken the trouble not just to bury the horse, but to protect it from predators that might have exposed it.

  I got hold of a corner of the plywood and worked it free. Flies settled instantly on the horse's bleared gummy eye. The lips were stretched tight above bared teeth. The dark brown coat was matted and dulled by death. A blue nylon construction tarp was wadded up underneath like a tawdry shroud.

  But the real ugliness lay in how it had been killed. A chunk of flesh the size of my fist was gouged out of its neck. Bits of spine showed under the raw blood-crusted meat. I'd seen plenty of dead game, including some that had been shot up pretty badly by inexperienced or unlucky h
unters. But this was a difference of kind.

  My brain didn't want to believe what my eyes told it-that the wounds had been made by a shotgun, at very close range.

  Worse still, I glimpsed another, lighter-colored horse under the first one.

  I swallowed hard and pulled away more of the junk with one hand, swatting at the bugs with the other. I guess I was hoping I'd find something that would convince me I was mistaken, help me make sense of this. Instead, I saw more big wounds behind the shoulder and on the flank, and enough of the second horse to tell that it was gouged in the same way.

  Then I yanked free another good-size scrap of plywood. I just got a glimpse of the gut piles, spilling out of the ripped-open bellies, before the stink exploded in my face.

  My own guts heaved up a thin stream of bile. I tore off my bandanna and stumbled away, hacking and spitting out the sour burning taste.

  Hunched over, hands on my knees, I could feel the warm still air wrapped around me, hear the insects droning and see the crows flapping. But for a few seconds all that was a screen, and something inhuman and pitiless was on the other side, watching me. I think I yelled, like I was trying to wake up out of a nightmare.

  There might have been more I could have seen, but I was done looking. I shoved the scraps of plywood back into place and kicked some trash over them.

  As I slogged across the pit to my truck, I thought I could hear a new sound in the distance, like the rippling purr of a small engine.

  I twisted the key in the ignition and got the hell out of there.

  4

  The ranch roads were all rough and this one was worse than most, washboarded and studded with rocks the size of tire rims. There was no speed you could drive at that wouldn't rattle your teeth. Bad as I wanted to be gone, I took it slow.

  But within two or three minutes, I saw another dust cloud coming toward me. At its core was a vehicle of a startling arrest-me-red color, doing at least forty. This wasn't the small engine I'd heard. This was an extended three-quarter-ton, four-wheel-drive, diesel-powered Dodge Ram, about the biggest, newest, shiniest pickup truck that money could buy. It belonged to Doug Wills, the ranch foreman.