7 Wild East (2 page)

“This is no time to be a gentleman. I can manage it.”

But it was a near thing. They must have brought all the
comforts of home with them including a frying pan and firewood.

We were all struggling with our loads and didn’t try and
talk until we were back in town and on the flat.

Mark, though young and skinny, was not exactly lightweight
either, and Big John and Wendell were glad to set him down in Doc’s examining
room and turn him over to Linda Skywater.

“
Why are they here
, Butterstotch?” Ricky asked in his
own version of Gaelic. Then he added in English, “They don’t have red hair.”

“
Remember that we don’t make fun of people for not having
red hair
,” I reminded him.

“’Scuse me, ma’am,” Mark gasped as Linda removed his boot.
The ankle was very swollen. “What language are you speaking?”

“It’s Gaelic.”

I could see that he wanted to ask about the red hair.
Wendell’s hair was black as was Linda’s, and the doc’s was silver. Only Big
John, Ricky, and I had red hair.

“So what are you guys doing out here? We sure were surprised
to see you. We don’t get many visitors—especially not when the bears are so bad.”
I figured it was never too soon to start playing that theme.

“Bears?” Pete began to frown. “No one said anything about
bears in the area.”

“Lord, yes. No deaths so far this summer, but it’s bound to
happen eventually. I don’t think we ever had a year without a bear attack. Big
John?”

“Well, I think in ’52 we went for a whole summer without an
attack. But they killed three in the fall.”

We all shook our heads over the tragic and dangerous
situation.

“Well, I have a pistol in my pack.”

“No offense,” Wendell said. “But even a high-powered handgun
won’t stop a bear in time. You shouldn’t be out without a shotgun.”

“But don’t worry about that now,” I said, content that we
had caused sufficient fear to keep anyone from wandering off, assuming Mark
would be in any shape to wander. “We will get you fixed right up. A little rest
and that ankle will feel ever so much better. And I bet you could use something
to eat. Camping out can be fun, but it’s hard to get a decent meal.”

“I’d love something to eat,” the boy confessed, happy to
talk of something else while the Bones bound him up. His lips were white and I
was moved to pity. I’ve had sprains before and they can hurt more than a break.

“Ricky,” I said, turning to the boy who wasn’t looking real
happy about Doc’s handiwork either. Especially when he got out a hypodermic. “
Would
you go to the inn and tell Judy we need a room fixed up and something nice for
dinner?
”

He processed this. I had spoken slowly and used easy words
so he would understand.

“Okay,” he said, breaking into a grin. “Mounties are
supposed to help people.”

Ricky had developed a bit of hero worship for Chuck and
currently wanted to be the first Mountie astronaut.

“Yes, they do.
Now be quick like a bunny
.”

“A Mountie?” Pete asked as Ricky charged out the door. He
was slumped in one of Doc’s oaken chairs. His dusty face lent to his general
air of exhaustion.

“My husband is a Mountie,” I said.

“That’s nice, a kid wanting to follow in his father’s
footsteps.”

“Yes. But he isn’t my son. He’s … well, a cousin, I guess.
Relationships get a little complicated here.” I stopped there and got back on
to the subject that mattered. “So, was this just a pleasure trip?”

“Actually, no. We are here on a job.”

“Really?” I said encouragingly, but inside began to feel
dread. I hoped that he didn’t notice everyone else stiffening.

“It’s actually pretty exciting—at least potentially.”

“Yes?”

“We’re surveyors. Well, I am. Mark is my assistant.”

“—and beast of burden,” the boy corrected. Doc’s shot was
working and the boy was beginning to look sleepy.

“You folks are very fortunate,” Pete said enthusiastically,
unable to hold back his good news any longer. “This town is about to become
famous. We’re building a pipeline right through here!”

Silence.

“Maybe we should get Mark to the Moose,” I suggested faintly
when everyone else froze with horror and forgot how to speak in either English
or Gaelic.

“
And call a meeting for tonight
,” Big John added
grimly. “
A pipeline! Dear God! I thought they had their hands full with
Keystone.”

*  * 
*

Inspector Charles Goodhead of the Royal Canadian Mounted
Police stood on the tarmac of James Armstrong Richardson International Airport
in Winnipeg waiting for the arrival of a new recruit into the Mounties who was
to be trained in outback patrol. Since Chuck had taken on the job of patrolling
the outback he’d been labeled as the expert in policing the rougher territories
of Manitoba. Along with the new job came the new responsibility of training
other Mounties in the unique requirements associated with working in the wild. The
rookie that Chuck was waiting for had been on the force only three months. His
name was Thomas Merryweather and he was some kind of biologist. Chuck had
arrived early to the airport because he wanted to make sure the Wings would be
ready for their flight. While he waited for the recruit to show he exchanged
idle banter with the Wings who continued tinkering with one of the engines.

“So, you seem kind of distracted today,” Chuck observed. “What’s
weighing so heavily on your mind?”

“Oh, it’s this test I’ve got to take to renew my pilot’s
license,” the Wings explained. “Hey, would you pass me that spanner over
there.”

Chuck handed the Wings the greasy tool and then had to
resist the urge to rub his hand on his pants.

“Why would any flying test make you nervous? You should pass
it with flying colors.”

“It’s just that I haven’t studied the rules and regulations
in years. I’m nervous that I’ll do something or say something wrong and fail. I’m
telling you, if I don’t pass this test, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“If you don’t pass this test, I don’t know what McIntyre’s
Gulch is going to do,” Chuck countered.

Chuck would have supplied more words of support, but at this
point in their conversation he was distracted by the sight of a Mountie
strolling his way from the nearby terminal attired in full dress uniform. The
man carried several bags with him hanging from every limb, some of the bags
even rolled on wheels, but the excess luggage didn’t seem to encumber his
movements. This didn’t prevent Chuck from having concerns about whether the
luggage would fit in the plane.

The new Mountie’s uniform was spotless. He was tall, strong,
and even good looking. Chuck’s hopes of a successful and maybe even an
enjoyable training session rose at the sight of the stalwart recruit. Most
important to Chuck, the man was spot on time.

“You must be Thomas Merryweather,” Chuck said while stepping
forward and extending his hand.

“And you must be Senior Inspector Goodhead,” the Mountie
returned, dropping a couple of his bags to accept the handshake.

The man wore a broad smile and his handshake was firm and
confident. He was young, maybe in his late twenties. He had short cropped blond
hair from what Chuck could see around the hat and a neatly trimmed blond mustache.

“Hello, Tom. And you can call me Chuck.”

“I’d prefer it if you call me Thomas. The boys in the
schoolyard used to call me Tom. It haunts me to this day. And I’ll be calling
you Senior Inspector for the time being, if you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all, Thomas,” Chuck said, developing his first
inklings of concern regarding the welcoming the young Mountie was going to
receive when they made it to McIntyre’s Gulch. “So, tell me, where are you
from?”

“Winnipeg, born and bred,” Thomas replied proudly.

Chuck had expected the lad to mention some backwoods berg. Instead
the kid was a bona fide city boy, born and bred. And proud of it to boot. Good
Lord, Chuck thought, they’re going to eat him alive in the Gulch. The Mountie
rummaged his scattered thoughts for some way to make the encounter easier for
the recruit but realized that getting through it on his own would probably be
the most important part of his training if he was serious about being assigned
to the outback. Meanwhile, the Wings had stopped working on the engine and was
clearing his throat loudly to remind Chuck that he had yet to be introduced.

“Thomas Merryweather, I’d like you to meet Danny
Jones-McIntyre, more commonly referred to as the Wings.”

“Hi, Tom,” the Wings said, extending a greasy hand.

Chuck didn’t blame Thomas for looking doubtfully at the
Wings’ grease-streaked hand rather than soiling his manicured fingers by
shaking. He did think that the initial verbal exchange could have been handled
better though.

“Please, call me Officer Merryweather,” Thomas corrected. “You
must be the pilot. I’d now like to check your pilot’s license, the latest
safety report for your craft, and your flight plan before we take off.”

“Excuse me?” the Wings replied.

“That won’t be required, Thomas,” Chuck intervened. “I
already took care of reviewing his papers while we were waiting.”

“Are you suggesting I don’t know my job?” the Wings asked
indignantly, refusing to let the issue pass.

The two men stood erect gritting their teeth and considering
one another. Rather than interfere, Chuck opted to stand back and see how the
kid handled himself in a tense situation. As it turned out, he didn’t handle
himself well.

“I don’t know you, Mr. Wings. How could I possibly know
whether you know how to do your job or not?”

“Maybe my twenty years spent flying this particular route
should have been considered first,” the Wings suggested.

Another silence fell between them. Chuck took the
opportunity to address an important issue that needed to be resolved before
they climbed on the plane.

“You know, Thomas, I’m certainly one to respect the uniform,
but in this case, full dress may be a little overwhelming for where we’re
going.”

“You’re suggesting that I dress down for my first encounter
with the citizens of an outback town?”

“He’s suggesting that you don’t look like a daft prick,” the
Wings corrected.

Again there was silence and tension as the two men observed
each other.

“I passed a restroom while I was walking through the
terminal. Perhaps I’ll go back and change,” Thomas suggested.

“That would be best,” Chuck agreed.

“Don’t rush back,” the Wings added.

The recruit lowered the remainder of his bags to the tarmac.
He selected one duffel from the large pile, lifted it, and turned to return to
the terminal. Of course, he saluted Chuck and awaited a returning salute before
leaving.

“What a jerk,” the Wings commented as Thomas walked away. “You
know, he’s going to get crucified when we get him to the Gulch.”

“Yes, I’m fully aware of that and more shame to all of you,”
Chuck replied. “Let’s load his bags while we’re waiting.”

“Is all his luggage going to fit?” the Wings replied,
mirroring Chuck’s own concerns on the subject. “I have supplies to fly in too.”

The two men had the luggage packed by the time Thomas
returned. The recruit was wearing yet another pristine uniform, this one the
traditional green of the working Mountie. He returned with the duffel he’d
taken but also had a garment bag draped over a shoulder. The Wings snickered
when he saw Thomas coming.

“One more thing, Wings,” Chuck interrupted. “I’d like this
to be a nice peaceful flight.”

“What are you suggesting?” the Wings countered.

“Let’s just say that I know what you’re thinking, but I’ll
remind you that I’ll be on this flight as well and there are limits to what my
stomach can take. How about we don’t have an engine failure this time?”

“I understand, boss,” the Wings replied with a wink.

Chuck was doubtful that the Wings fully understood his
wishes—or that he would honor them—and he felt a little depressed as he climbed
into the passenger seat of the plane. It was going to be a long, awful flight.

*  * 
*

Ricky, a child of no more than six, slunk through the woods
at the outskirts of the town of McIntyre’s Gulch on a mission. Within his rich
imagination, he was Officer Ricky Jones, the latest recruit into the RCMP and
new partner of Inspector Charles Goodhead. But now he was on a solo assignment
to clean up a gang of terrorists who had set up camp in the outskirts of town. He
carried a large tree branch with him which in his mind was a high-powered rifle
needed to defend both himself and the citizens of the land he’d sworn to
protect.

Ricky slithered through the undergrowth and took up position
behind a large pine where he could easily observe what was going on in town. He
watched as Butterscotch led two strangers, one limping badly, from the Bones’
office toward the pub. He reached into his back pocket to remove a pad of paper
and a pencil, the two most important tools of a government agent, and made a
note of the new arrivals. Putting his pencil and paper away, he crept closer to
the shed which was his current objective.

Sliding along the worn boards of the shed he crept toward
the front door. There he prepared himself before throwing the door wide open
and stepping inside.

“Hands up, you two. You’ve been nabbed,” Ricky announced,
pointing his makeshift gun at the two suspicious-looking characters huddled
within the shed.

“Ricky, you nearly scared the daylights out of me,” Horace
announced, looking up from the explosive he was working on. “And that’s not a
good thing to do when someone is performing such a delicate operation.”

“Go away before you get us in trouble with the Flowers,”
Sasha announced. “We will play guns later.”