Читать книгу Montana Dreaming - Nadia Nichols - Страница 11

BEN COMSTOCK HAD BEEN a warden for nearly twenty years. He’d passed through all the standard phases a warden goes through, from the idealism of youth to the disillusionment of experience. He’d seen it all, and he’d long since stopped believing he could single-handedly protect and defend the wilderness and wildlife of Montana. Even though he was aware that Joe Nash had broken just about every game law in existence, slyly eluding all the traps Comstock had set for him, he never hesitated to call on Joe when he needed his services. And right now, he was glad he had. He had both considerable affection and tremendous respect for Jessie Weaver. He’d known her since she was a little girl, having spent many a pleasurable evening at the Weaver ranch, playing poker at the kitchen table and sharing good sipping whiskey with her father.

He’d heard from Bernie that she’d just sold the ranch. For her to do it had taken a lot of guts. He hadn’t really believed she’d have deliberately ridden out in the midst of a freak autumn snowstorm, hoping she’d freeze to death up on that mountain she loved, but the doubts had nagged at him ever since he’d gotten the call that she was missing. She had to be pretty depressed after losing her father, breaking up with Guthrie Sloane and now losing the ranch, as well.

No doubt his relief at finding her alive and well showed plainly on his face as he approached. “Good to see you, Jessie,” he said. “Can you make it to the chopper?”

“I’m fine, but my cow dog’s hurt.”

Guthrie struggled to his feet, holding the injured dog, and Comstock eyed him keenly. He was looking a mite winded, Guthrie was. Hell, that was to be expected. The boy had run more than ten miles of rough mountain trail on snowshoes, searching for his girl. Guess he had a right to appear wrung out. But that wasn’t the whole of what was ailing him, either. He felt a strong twinge of paternal pity for Guthrie Sloane. “Sorry to have taken so long getting our tails up here,” he said. “The storm pretty much shut everything down. You all right, son?”

A curt nod. “McCutcheon’s up on the hill. He’s tuckered out. Maybe you could give him a ride back to the ranch.”

“The chopper carries four, but I’m sure we can fit you in, too. Jessie doesn’t weigh much more than that dog of hers.”

“No, thanks. It’s not that far to the main road, and you’ll make better time with a lighter load. You’ll take care of Jess?”

“You know I will.” Comstock nodded, gently lifting the injured dog out of Guthrie’s arms. “I’ll get them loaded while you fetch McCutcheon down.” Squinting against the glare of the sun on the snow, both men glanced to where McCutcheon had last been seen. “Oh, jiminy,” Comstock said. “You see what I see?”

Guthrie’s eyes narrowed. “Damn! You suppose he’s had a heart attack?”

“Well, he’s definitely down, and the way he’s lying doesn’t look quite natural, does it?”

Without another word Guthrie started slogging, head down, back up the slope.

BADGER HAD SEEN a lot of things in his seventy-eight years, but he’d never seen a helicopter land up close. He heard the big machine appraoch long before it set down in front of the Weaver ranch, causing a stampeding panic among the horses corralled next to the pole barn. He stood on the porch, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his old sheepskin coat, and watched as Ben Comstock jumped out of the helicopter’s side door. He reached up and handed down none other than Jessie Weaver.

Badger nodded a greeting to Comstock. He’d known darn well that Jessie would be okay. She probably would’ve walked out herself in another hour or so. The chopper had passed overhead not ten minutes ago, so she had to have been close to home when they found her. ’Course, a fast machine like Joe Nash’s could cover some ground in ten minutes.

“Badger!” Jessie said as she climbed the porch steps. She stopped in front of him and stared, then glanced past him to where Steven stood in the kitchen doorway, watching silently. “If the both of you are here, I guess maybe the whole town’s in the kitchen.”

“No…no, they’re not. The state police and Park County Search and Rescue are at the Longhorn, waitin’ on Comstock’s call.” Badger shifted under the burn of her eyes. Jessie didn’t like an audience. He understood that better than anyone. Still, she hadn’t rounded on that Indian lawyer. In fact, unless he’d gotten too old to read sign, Jessie and that lawyer were real glad to see each other.

“Badger, I need you to drive out and meet Guthrie,” she said. “He’ll be coming onto the road about three miles shy of Katy Junction near the Bear Creek crossing. You know the place.” She was unbuckling her chaps one-handed as she spoke. That done, she flung them, dark and heavy with meltwater, over the porch railing. Badger stood back, fidgeting. He knew better than to offer to help.

“I’ll get right out there,” he said.

“I expect he’ll be pretty tired by the time he gets to the road,” she said, straightening. “How’re the horses? Did Billy make it back?”

Dang, but she looked wrung out! Her eyes were as intense as ever, but they were shadowed with pain and fatigue, and improbable as it seemed, it appeared as though she’d been crying. This upset Badger more than anything else. Jessie Weaver never cried. Never. “Billy’s here and the horses are all fine. Fed and watered,” he said. “C’mon inside and get out of them wet clothes—warm yourself up. You’ve had a time of it. That’s plain enough to see.”

She shook her head, chin lifting, shoulders squaring. “Blue’s been hurt. Got all clawed up by a grizzly. Joe’s going to drop us at Cooper’s on his way to flying McCutcheon to the hospital in Bozeman. He fell and hurt his ankle. Looks broke to me.”

“I could drive you to the veterinarian,” Steven said, speaking for the first time. He stepped out onto the porch, thumbs hooked in his rear pockets and head canted slightly to one side, but again Badger wasn’t fooled. There was nothing casual about the way that Indian lawyer felt about Jessie.

“Thanks, but it’ll be quicker in the chopper, and Joe’s offered.” She looked at him and the faintest of smiles traced her lips. “Thanks,” she said once more. She turned and almost as an afterthought as she descended the porch steps, she said over her shoulder, “I never did find my mares.”

DOC COOPER WAS DRUNK. It was nearly 11:00 a.m. and he’d already downed nearly a fifth of good Kentucky bourbon, the kind his daddy had drunk way back when times were easy and the land was bountiful and ranchers could pay their vet bills and people still ate red meat and family farms were the mainstay of an honest and hardworking nation. He was drunk and singing a religious ballad his daddy had sung a long time ago about a wheel way up in the middle of the sky.

“Ezekiel saw the wheel, way up in the middle of the sky.

Ezekiel saw the wheel, way in the middle of the sky!”

Those were the only words that he could remember, because he wasn’t an overly religious man himself, but that was okay. He didn’t know what the wheel was about, either, but that was all right, too. There was snow on the ground, October was nearly played out and the winter would be long and dark and cold. There was nothing else it could be. All the winters out here were the same. The wind blew, the temperature dropped, the snow fell, animals died. Animals were always dying. In fact, anything at all that was alive was always getting hurt or sick or old, and in the end they always died.

And now he’d lost his best friend. A phone call in the middle of the night from Drew’s wife, Ramalda, who could barely speak English, but she’d found just enough words to tell him that Drew wouldn’t be makin’ it to the Halloween Stomp this year. Dammit all, it was enough to drive a man to drink! He raised the bottle for another sip, then sang some more.

“Ezekiel saw the wheel, way up in the middle of the sky.

Ezekiel saw the wheel, way in the middle of the sky!”

And then he heard the sound. A strange deep rhythmic sound that grew louder and louder. He got up, went outside and stood with his eyes upturned. Great God in heaven! Could that be Ezekiel’s wheel? Could such a miracle ever happen to him? He raised the bottle in mute salute as the apparition descended from the heavens and a man who resembled the local game warden came forth from it and moved toward him.

“Ezekiel?” Dr. Cooper said. And then he lost his balance and sat down hard on the wooden bench outside the door of his modest house, spilling a generous splash of good Kentucky bourbon onto the weathered porch boards at his feet. He raised the bottle again, reverently. “Welcome to Katy Junction. Welcome!”

JOE NASH GLANCED to look behind him to where Jessie sat next to McCutcheon, cradling the wounded dog in her arms. “Well, Jessie Weaver, offhand I’d say you got yourself a little problem. What’s plan B?”

Jessie had never seen Dr. Cooper in this state before. There was no denying that he was severely incapacitated. He wouldn’t be able to stitch Blue up or take X rays to check for internal injuries. He wouldn’t be able to reassure her that her longtime friend, companion and working partner would be all right. Dr. Cooper couldn’t even stand up. She shook her head. “I don’t have a plan B,” she said, despair curdling her blood. “Blue needs help and she needs it now.”

Joe nodded. “Hey, Comstock! C’mon, crawl your official carcass back in here.” He shouted out the door. “We’re heading for Bozeman. I know a doctor there who owes me a big favor.”

Jessie leaned forward. “Blue needs a veterinarian.”

“Anything Cooper can do, any competent physician can.”

“A people doctor doesn’t know anything about dogs.”

“No offense,” Joe said, “but Cooper doesn’t know all that much about dogs, either, though I’m told he’s a genius with cattle and pigs. C’mon, Comstock! Hurry it up. We got a man here with a busted ankle, and a dog that needs surgery. And if I don’t get this chopper back to home base by 5:00 p.m. my posterior is going to be a sling.”

“Let me out, Joe,” Jessie said, edging toward the door. “I can tend my dog right here, and when Doc sobers up he can help me.”

“Not a good plan, little lady,” Joe said, powering up the Bell JetRanger as Comstock climbed aboard. “By the looks of him, that old man won’t be sober for a week. Pray all the cows and pigs in Katy Junction stay healthy, and just relax and enjoy the ride.”

KATY JUNCTION HADN’T known this much excitement since the day the outlaw Billy Bowden shot Lieutenant John Gatlin right in front of his entire regiment back in 1878. The whole town and half the regiment had chased after Bowden, but they’d never caught him. It took a U.S. marshal by the name of Joe Belle down in Arizona Territory to bring that outlaw to justice. Wouldn’t that just figure. An Arizona lawman! Probably shot him out of pocket, too. Them damn Arizonians were famous for hiding pistols in their pockets. But no matter. Bowden had deserved what he got.

Badger shook his head and cut himself a plug of tobacco, shifting on the cracked vinyl of the old truck seat and staring at the place where Bear Creek twisted and tumbled out of the foothills.

Yessir, this’d be a topic of conversation for months to come. What were the odds that Guthrie Sloane would come back to roost on the very night Jessie Weaver disappeared? And then he’d taken off after her in the middle of the night; didn’t matter that it was snowing like the blue blazes. Found her, too! Lord a’mighty. Surely this would soften her. Couldn’t she see that the boy was crazy about her? Always had been; always would be. Maybe he wasn’t perfect. Maybe he didn’t have a lot of money. Maybe he didn’t think exactly the way she did about everything. But hell, Guthrie Sloane was all wool and a yard wide. He’d do to ride the river with.

Badger caught a flash of movement through the pines that flanked the creek. Yep, there he was. Snowshoes over his shoulder, striding along in what was left of the rotting snow. Paying careful attention where he put his feet because the going was slick. Not noticing Badger’s truck until he nearly stumbled over it. Badger bumped the horn with the palm of his hand, leaned out the window and spat a stream of tobacco juice. “Hey, mister, wanna ride?”

Guthrie stopped and stood flat-footed, weaving slightly. He stared at Badger for a long blank moment and then recognition glimmered and he said, “She’s okay. Jessie’s okay. We found her.”

“I know that, son. She’s bringing the dog to Doc Cooper’s place. She sent me here to pick you up.”

Guthrie nodded. He looked worse than Jessie had. Hollow-eyed from lack of sleep and reeling with exhaustion. He and Jessie made a pair, that’s for certain. “I better go there, then,” he said. “Her arm needs tending, but she won’t see to herself until she’s seen to Blue. And even then she might just let it go.”

He explained this very slowly and carefully, as if Badger hadn’t known Jessie Weaver all her life.

“Son,” Badger said, “you might as well have something to eat first, before you pitch onto your face. You ain’t slept in a couple of days, nor eaten in that long, either, by the looks of you. C’mon. Crawl in the truck. Your sister cooks a mean breakfast, and she’s expectin’ you.”

Didn’t matter that it was well past noon. Nossir, it didn’t. Badger was right. Steak, eggs, home fries and lots of strong black coffee would go down real fine. Real fine. Guthrie nodded. Rubbed his burning eyes. Rubbed the stubble over his jaw. Hadn’t shaved since leaving Valdez. Must look like a rough-cut lumberjack. Didn’t care one damn bit. Nodded again. “Okay,” he said.

GUILT. Jessie crept into the sterile, high-tech room in the surgical wing and sat gingerly on the edge of a plastic chair drawn up beside McCutcheon’s hospital bed, completely overwhelmed by guilt. “I’m sorry about your ankle, Mr. McCutcheon,” she said. “This is all my fault, you lying here all stove up and Blue being hurt. It’s because I didn’t bring the mares down earlier. I should’ve known they’d sneak off that way when they saw me corralling the others. I should’ve brought them in first. Without Old Gray to help me…I should’ve known.”

“You can’t take the credit for breaking my ankle,” McCutcheon said in a gruff voice. “I did that all by myself, with a little help from my snowshoes and a low-flying helicopter that scared the bejesus out of me. And by the way, there’s nothing worse than listening to a Catholic at confession.”

“I’m not Catholic,” Jessie said, taken aback.

“No? Well, you should’ve been. Anyhow, no one forced me to tramp off looking for you—I did that voluntarily. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Mr. McCutcheon…”

“Caleb. Call me Caleb. Please.”

Jessie rose to her feet. “I can’t stay. Joe Nash, the helicopter pilot, is waiting for me. Blue’s all right. She’s been tended to and he’s keeping watch on her until I get back. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“What time is it?”

“Suppertime. I can smell the food in the hallways.” She smiled faintly. She had gone past the point of hunger a long, long while ago. She was light-headed, giddy; she felt as if she could float away. The pain in her arm was the only thing that kept her grounded. That, and the enormous guilt that burdened her conscience. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call your wife?”