Crow Mountain (3 page)

‘Hope is home-schooled, and we're still discussing what she will study at university. A vocational or science degree is best. It's very difficult for Arts graduates to find work in the UK at the moment.'

He drove one-handed, putting his free hand on the roof rail at the top of the door outside. ‘Well, our vocation's ranching. What's your vocation, Hope?'

Writing, I want to be a writer. More than anything
. Hope took a breath to speak, the words seemingly stuck in her throat.

‘Hope will study a science, probably chemistry,' Meredith said, and no one spoke much after that.

They drove on. At one point they passed a low, dirty house with smoke coming from the single chimney. Scattered around it were more than a dozen old buses and trucks, their shapes familiar to Hope from old movies. Rusting and collapsing into the scrubby prairie, they looked like a herd of decrepit animals.

A phone buzzed somewhere. Cal pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it for a second before putting it back. Hope was annoyed at herself for wanting to know who was getting in touch with him. She pulled out her own phone and checked her text messages.

‘Is the roaming turned off?' Meredith asked for the tenth time.

Hope stared out of the window. The landscape was changing again, with bigger dips and rolls, and to the right was a group of old wooden buildings. The land around them was cultivated and there was a group of women working in a field, weeding with long-handled hoes. Their clothes were brightly coloured, consisting of a pinafore dress and flat leather shoes. On their heads were black, white-spotted kerchiefs.

Cal saw her watching them with interest. ‘They're the Hutterites. Kind of like Amish. No cars, no electricity, nothing modern. Came from Germany in the nineteenth century, settled all over these parts and up into Canada. Folks round here call them the Hoots. They farm, mostly.'

‘This terrain is rather inhospitable to traditional arable agriculture, isn't it?' Meredith asked, gesturing out to the scrubby plant covering the miles of untended land. ‘That's sagebrush, I think. Very hardy.'

‘Yeah, we got about sixteen types. It grows where other things won't. And yeah, the land isn't great. Lot of failed homesteaders around here back in the last century. Ranchers generally aren't keen on little farms breaking up the land and farmers tend not to like waking up to a load of cattle
trampling their fields. But the Hutterites, they work crazy-hard. And land is all they have.'

A red sign on the side of the road informed them they had arrived in Fort Shaw. It was a small town, with one main street. There was an old military cemetery with a white sign proclaiming it dated from 1867. Cal halted the pick-up outside a white wooden shack with an ancient Pepsi sign sticking out of it, next to a faded silver convertible. Sitting under the shaded porch, humming, was a white refrigerator as ancient as the sign, with a glass front containing beers and sodas, and a large mongrel dog. A sign on the door behind the dog read ‘Open'.

‘I'll be just a moment.' Cal got out and went to the door, stepping over the dog and going inside.

Meredith and Hope sat in silence.

‘Apparently lots of young Americans don't graduate high school. It's a shame, but we mustn't let that affect our judgement of him.'

Hope resisted the urge to say that she hadn't judged him at all.

‘Look,' Meredith's tone softened, ‘I know you're shy, but it would be nice if you tried just a little harder. I'm going to take this opportunity to use the loo. Coming?'

Hope shook her head. Meredith got out of the pick-up on the driver's side and went through a door that said ‘Restroom, Patrons Only' just next to the shop. Hope watched the street.

Cal reappeared, a case of wine under each arm. He hooked the door open with his foot and stepped back over the dog.
He put the wine in the flatbed and disappeared again, coming out a few seconds later with a vast bag of something slung over his shoulder. The pick-up bounced a little as he dropped it into the back. He went back to the store, pulling money from the rear pocket of his jeans, elbow sharp behind him. He stood in the doorway, talking to a bulky American Indian man as he handed over the money. Hope listened to him as they talked.

‘Nah, thanks anyway though. Two fifty, right?'

‘Yep. Two twenty for the wine and thirty for the dog food. I swear Buddy is sponsored by the pet-food people, the amount he eats. Thanks.' He took the cash. ‘Send my best to your parents.'

‘Will do. Thanks, Joe. You guys coming up next weekend?'

The store owner grinned as he tucked the money away. ‘Wouldn't miss a Crow barbecue after all this time. And we're looking forward to meeting your visitors.' He waved towards the pick-up. Hope lifted her hand and smiled.

Coming towards the pick-up on the quiet street was another truck, newer and shinier. It sped up as it got closer, engine loud and music pumping. The driver's window was down, and as it passed shouts and jeers came from the blacked-out interior, and a large plastic cup smashed against Hope's side of the pick-up, exploding in a spray of ice and watery Coke. She recoiled as the truck drove away, music fading as it turned the corner.

Cal jumped down, leaning in the driver's side window. ‘You OK?'

Hope brushed a couple of splashes from her shoulder. ‘Yes. Thanks. Friendly locals.'

He was scowling, looking after the truck.

‘Local idiots,' the man called Joe said. ‘Sorry about that, miss.'

Hope shrugged, unsettled, as a tall American Indian woman in jeans, a tight T-shirt, and a gun in a shoulder holster walked out of the store, letting the door bang behind her. On her belt was a police badge. Her narrow eyes were focused down the street, where the truck had disappeared.

Cal took a bottle of water from the noisy refrigerator, just as a police cruiser slid to a halt right in front of the pick-up's nose. Two men got out. Both were large and intimidating. Their belts bristled with batons, handcuffs and firearms. Cal's pace, returning to the vehicle, slowed. ‘What
now
?' Hope heard him say under his breath.

‘Well well, young Caleb Crow,' the older man said. He wore mirrored sunglasses on his craggy face and his uniform looked more senior than the young man's. He had muscular arms he folded over his chest. Joe came back on to the porch of the shop, and the dog lifted its head, suddenly alert. The tall woman stuck her hands in her back pockets and watched, her glossy shoulder-length hair caught by the breeze.

‘Chief Hart, Officer Jones,' Cal said politely, with a slight nod.

Despite the man's sunglasses, Hope knew his gaze had shifted to her. She ducked her head.

‘What have we got here?' The chief sauntered over to the
rolled-down driver's window and stooped to look in at Hope. ‘Hello, miss. You from out of town?'

‘Hello. Yes, I am.'

‘Listen to that pretty accent. You English?'

‘Yes.'

He straightened up, speaking to Cal again. The other officer was standing intimidatingly close. ‘You gotta go some distance these days to make sure they ain't heard your reputation, don't you, son?'

Cal's face was impassive, but Hope saw his hand tighten around the water bottle. The chief saw it too.

‘Ah now, boy, don't get riled. I ain't gonna tell her what a no-good piece a-shit you really are.' He bent to the window again, looking in at Hope. ‘Now, miss, you take real good care of yourself around this boy, OK? He ain't to be trusted. Enjoy your stay here in our fine county.' He slapped the door of the pick-up, then his eyes shifted to the flatbed in the back, seeing the wine. A triumphant smirk spread across his face. ‘Now, would that there be alcohol I see you just purchased from our upstanding ethnic storekeeper here in town?'

Cal said nothing and Hope suddenly remembered that the legal age for drinking in America was twenty-one. Cal was underage. Joe's expression was unreadable, but Hope could feel the tension in the air.

The policeman walked back to where his fellow officer was standing, almost toe to toe with Cal.

‘Looks like I got me an open and shut case. Shame to close down these fine stores, but I ain't got no choice. Can't
condone the selling of alcohol to Montana's minors.'

Cal didn't move, his jaw set. Joe said nothing.

‘Knew I'd get you in the end, Black. Just a matter of time. Your kind just ain't good around liquor, are you—?'

‘He was collecting an order,' the tall woman interrupted, knocking a cigarette out of a soft packet. ‘That's all.' She and the policeman stared at each other for a long time, his eyes unreadable behind the glasses.

‘No one asked you . . . Officer,' he said. ‘So I suggest you get along to the rez and do whatever it is you do there.'

The woman lit the cigarette. ‘No business there today. Business here,' she said around it.

His face hardened further. ‘This place is under my care, you remember that.'

‘I remember,' she said placidly.

Meredith came out of the restroom. ‘Is there a problem, Officers? We've only parked here for a few moments so I could use the conveniences. I'm sorry, we've just come from the airport and I was quite insistent.'

The police chief nodded in her direction. ‘Ma'am, I'm afraid we have an incident of the sale of alcohol by Mr Black to young Mr Crow here. There are serious penalties for that in this state.'

Meredith didn't even blink. ‘Alcohol? Do you mean the wine?'

‘Yes, ma'am, I do.'

‘Oh, but I purchased it. We're here for a month, you see, and I do like a glass of wine at the end of the day.'

Hope breathed a sigh of relief. The police chief looked seriously disappointed, almost as if he was grinding his teeth. The tall woman was trying not to smile.

‘You got a receipt?'

‘I'm afraid not. I paid in cash so I didn't take one. Two hundred and twenty dollars.'

After a pause the police chief spoke again. ‘Then there's no problem at all, ma'am. I'd like to welcome you and your daughter to Montana. You take good care of her out at that ranch.'

There was a silence. Meredith refused to fill it, her face hardening at the mention of Hope.

‘Because, you know, anything could happen,' he finished. With that, both men turned, got back into the police cruiser, taking their time, and the car lumbered off. Hope looked down, wishing she were as brave as her mother. Meredith got back into the pick-up through Cal's door, sliding across the seat and buckling her belt.

Cal eased back into the pick-up and turned the key. ‘I'm obliged to you, Dr West.' He looked out of the window. ‘You too, Officer.' The tall woman threw down the end of her cigarette and stamped on the stub, then turned and left with a small nod in his direction.

Meredith clicked the seat-belt fastener. ‘Not at all. I loathe men throwing their weight around.'

‘How did you know how much it cost?' Cal looked genuinely bemused.

Meredith shook her head. ‘Have you heard the acoustics in
that bathroom? You can hear every word that's said right outside the store. Dreadful. I hope it doesn't work the other way round.'

Hope hid a smile.

As did Cal. ‘Still, thanks again. Joe could have been in real trouble.'

‘Yes, so I imagine. As could you. But we'll say no more about it. And I'd far rather have the wine than not.'

Hope sat listening in silence.

‘It's not far now, I promise,' Cal said, leaning across and holding out the bottle of water to Hope. ‘We live off Highway 89.' She looked at the water, surprised, before taking it. He said nothing about what had just happened, but there were stripes of red high on his brown cheekbones.

He turned off on to a single-track road and stopped the pick-up, jumping out and checking a sturdy white mailbox on a post, emblazoned on the front with ‘Broken Bit' and beneath, the words ‘
Oro y plana
'.

Gold and silver
. Montana's state motto, Hope had learnt from a cursory check of Wikipedia when Meredith had announced the tickets were booked.

A bundle of envelopes in his hand, Cal got back into the vehicle and drove on, heading for the mountain range to the west. The land rose in waves. Stands of trees clumped here and there and rocks dotted the landscape. After a short while, they passed beneath a huge wooden arch, seemingly fashioned from massive, scavenged, tree branches, burnt repeatedly with a motif Hope hadn't seen before. The sign
that hung from it held only one word in rusted iron letters: CROW.

‘What does the burnt symbol mean, please?' Hope asked.

‘It's our brand, for the livestock and the horses. Broken Bit ranch. Everyone puts theirs on their gatepost round here, if they're ranching. Ours is a little unusual – it's a broken D-ring snaffle bit, hence the name of the ranch. But it's also two Cs turned to face each other.' He curled his thumbs and forefingers to face each other in the shape of two letter Cs on top of the steering wheel. ‘Crow. And Caleb. We're all Caleb. I'm the fifth.'

Post and rail fencing appeared. Cattle dotted the landscape.

‘I thought your ranch was horses,' Meredith said.

‘It is. The finest American horses,' he said, matter-of-factly, glancing across at Hope. ‘But we also raise pedigree cattle. Rare breeds that are under threat. It's a family thing. We have buffalo here too. We're one of the original five families who saved them from extinction back in the nineteenth century. We've been here for almost a hundred and fifty years, kept the ranch intact through the fence wars, the Depression. My great-grandma kept it going while my great-grandaddy was a prisoner in the Pacific during World War Two. All the time we've been working on bringing back the buffalo. Still trying to even out the gene pool with them.'

‘Cattle are detrimental to the delicate environmental balance you've got here.' There was a note of accusation in Meredith's voice.