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Buck’s Loot
Hank Hufnagel |
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Prologue The shouts of the federal agents died away. They were city men, used to bright city streets, and Lou thought they had little chance of catching him in the forest at night, even without the storm. The wind and rain, the thunder and lightning just added to his confidence that, once again, he would escape the law, though his progress was anything but swift. He was following an Indian path that trailed east through the hemlock woods toward his old home, and with each flash of lightning was able to hobble along another ten or fifteen yards toward his destination. When he became unsure of the way, he would stop and wait in the dark for the next flash, listening to the cold, black rain tumble down onto new fallen leaves. Lou was wet from topknot to toes, but that didn’t bother him all that much. He had spent most of his 83 years outside and was used to wet clothes, numb hands, and tired feet. Still, he thought, tonight was no picnic. In all his years as hunter, trapper, and horse thief, he could only recall a couple of times worse than this, and those were decades in the past, back when he was considerably more spry. Not for the first time that night he thought, “I’m gettin’ too old for this crap.” Lou’s wide brim hat kept most of the rain from his face, but emptied the water it caught down his front and onto his boots, making them all the wetter. His old mangled hip pained him every time he put weight on his left foot, so it made sense to keep the saddlebag on his right shoulder. The bag weighed about 20 pounds and he shifted it around from time to time to ease the bite of the strap, but under his sodden coat, it had still rubbed his shoulder raw and painful. The old bag was all he had managed to get away with though, and he meant to keep it. He kept moving while the lightning lasted. When the storm finally grumbled away to the east, he stopped. This was no time to get lost. He knew exactly where he was headed, but the end of the journey would have to wait an hour, wait for the first of the morning’s light to show him the path home. He felt his way in under a big bushy pine and faced around when he found its trunk. Dropping the heavy bag, he leaned back, rubbed wearily at his raw shoulder and rested. Only a couple miles to go, then he could sleep. Until then, he had best stay wary. Lou dozed a bit, cursing mildly when he came awake again. It wasn’t that late, just before dawn, so it wasn’t like he’d wasted much daylight, but still it irritated him — never would’ve happened when he was in his prime. He picked up the heavy bag and shuffled off down the dim path. The wind had died to nothing, and clean, starry sky showed through the tops of the trees. A half-hour later, he stepped out into the high pasture. Forty years before, this had been home. The stars were dimming now with the coming of full dawn, and he could see the country for miles around. Below was the old farmhouse and barn. At sight of it, the hate came rolling back, even after all the years away. Forty years ago, he had sworn to her he’d never come back, and he still meant to stick by that. She could keep the damn place, burn it down. He didn’t care. Even after all the years away though, he still felt lousy about leaving the kid behind to grow up with the shrew. It was either that though or something worse. What kind of a man had the kid grown into? Was he down there still? Then Lou saw the farm was broken down and abandoned. The fields were full of weeds and wrist-thick saplings. The barn had a used up, swayback, out-of-kilter look. Slates were missing from the roof of the house. His boy didn’t live here anymore. Where was Jakey now? The valleys beyond the farm looked the same, full of fog and mystery. That’s where Lou longed to be, hidden away in a gray, cottony cloud. The path slanted down through milkweed and goldenrod, burdock and thistle — the old path that had been here long, long before any white man had ever seen this hillside. He followed it down toward the barn, but as he went, he noticed something new. It poked up from the yard at the front of the house — an oil derrick. That meant a drilling crew and unwanted questions. The place looked deserted at this early hour, but Lou was a cautious man, and so he sloped off to the left through fields filled with rain-wet goldenrod. He slouched and moved as fast as he could; the pasture could be seen from a long ways off, and he would stand out like a beetle on a bed sheet if anyone was around and happened to look up this way. When the house and barn fell back over the curve of the hill, Lou changed course again and plowed downhill through the weeds until he struck the old road. He remembered it as a brown gash leading from his farm to the furnace. It was brown no more, but plants grew poorly where heavy wagons had once compacted the earth, and the going was suddenly easier. His feet were numb stumps, his hip ached wearily and the shoulder that carried the bag seemed on fire. As he limped along he noticed chimney smoke coming from the old Hammerman place across Bear Run, heard the way-off moo of a cow. Who in his right mind would choose to live at that ramshackle old place? He’d take woods and streams, the freedom of the road, new places, new people; anything was better than a life spent milking cows and tending crops. He still missed the kid though, missed the early years of his wife’s company, back before she had turned bitter and hard, full of bad moods and complaint. The road fell gently into the valley until it came to the lip of the ravine that held Bear Run, then it swung sharp right, went steeply downhill and was soon lost in a slowly rolling wall of fog. Down there, a five-minute walk away, was Toby Creek and the old furnace. How many times had he gone down into that fog, felt the cold whiteness of it on his face? Not today though. He left the old road where it turned, and stopped to peer down into the sharp-sided valley. It was still dark down in there, and he could only just see Bear Run as it churned over a dozen small waterfalls and made its last run for Toby Creek. There was the old Indian path again. This bit had always been steep and treacherous, but today wet leaves and fallen nuts would make it even more dangerous. Worse, some fool had used this handy bit of steep hillside as a place to dump unwanted machinery, and the way down was littered with dark rusting shapes. Lou could still barely feel his feet and knew his steps would be anything but light and sure. He paused, his resolve fading away like the darkness around him. Maybe a visit to the loft of the old barn might be a better plan. He turned and looked unhappily back the way he had come, and very quickly gave up that notion. Far off, a man was walking down the road toward him. Damn. Lou couldn’t make much of the distant stranger, but he could see he was a large man, wore a long dark coat and had a plug hat perched on his head. Not a countryman then, looked a lot like a detective. No help for it, down he must go. At least the fella was alone. Lou smiled grimly; he could just about handle one man in this particular valley, even if he was weak as a squirrel. Lou wound the strap of his old leather bag around both hands and lowered it until it nearly touched the ground between his feet. Then, taking two short steps, he planted his boots on the slippery slope and started to slide down into the darkness. The ride was smooth as grease for twenty feet, but then he started slowly rotating to the right and his speed increased alarmingly. He was just about down when, sideways and going full tilt, he plowed into an old horse rake. He fell then, landing painfully on his sore shoulder just where the path turned right to run down beside the roaring stream. He lay there stunned for a second, very glad the hill was behind him. The bag had hit top first and coins had splashed out to dot the leaf-strewn ground with dull gleams of silver. Lou pawed with raked fingers to gather them in and quickly shoved them back into the bag. As he stood, a lone coin rolled from his clothing. He stooped painfully to pick it up, shoved it deep into a pocket and set off down the run as fast as his trembling legs would carry him. It wasn’t far now. The rhododendron bushes had grown some and hid the side of the hill. They didn’t fool Lou though. He knew just where to look. Fifty feet downstream from where the slide had dumped him, he turned up and scrambled low through fat green leaves. There it was — the entrance to the mine. The head beam had rotted and given way some. One good shove and it would let go altogether, but this was no time to be picky, he’d just be very careful. Hunkering low, he eased in under the beam and into the dry of the old shaft that ran 100 feet back under the hill. Just let any city Johnny find this particular hidey-hole! Thirty feet in Lou felt with his hands for the ledge on the right. It was still there and, as he hefted the bag up and on to it, he thought of the countless times he had put his lunch up here back in the ‘40s, back when his crew was digging this shaft. In some strange way, the old man felt he had completed a long looping trail. It had taken forty years, but now he was home, back where it had all started. He would sleep the day away, and then that evening, he’d slope over to Startown and get some grub, maybe a bottle. First, though, there was the detective. Better get ready, just in case he was better than he had looked. Lou felt stiff and tired as he moved slowly back to the entrance and huddled down against the rock wall near where the weak beam dripped and sagged. Entry would be difficult here, and as dirty as he was, he’d blend right in, becoming invisible to eyes fresh from daylight. If the big detective managed somehow to find the entrance to this long lost place, Lou would be on him like a bobcat backed against a wall. Lou was content now, starting to warm up a little as he sat quietly waiting for the man who likely wouldn’t come. It was good to be done with the weight of the heavy bag, good to just sit in the dry, and wait, listening to the drip of the trees on the leaves outside, the nearby crash of the stream… His eyes didn’t close, they never did when it mattered, but soon the weariness and the pleasant splash of the water swept him away and, eyes still staring, he slept. It might be he slept 10 minutes, maybe half an hour; whatever it was, something changed, and he was suddenly awake again. His old eyes widened a bit when he saw the silhouette of the lawman against the brighter day outside, not much though. Not for nothing had he been a hunter all those years. He waited, cursing silently. He should have tended to his back trail before dozing off. Now his tracks at the entrance would lead the man in. When he came, Lou would spring, like a cat on a rabbit. No, more like an old wolf at a large buck. He had to be careful. Surprise was his only weapon. Just let this detective get his back under that weak beam, though, and Lou would settle him good. The intruder was reluctant, evidently not liking the look of the rotten beam or the night-dark hole beneath. He was examining the ground again, putting off the inevitable. How had the man found this place? Must be a decent tracker, much good it would do him. Finally, the detective bent low and moved forward, leading with his head, his hat pushed back. Lou stopped breathing and tensed his leg and back muscles, waiting, waiting for the right moment. Then the dark man’s back was under the beam, and Lou uncoiled hard and fast. He grabbed hold and strained to push and twist. The detective was very heavy, and Lou didn’t move him much, but somehow it was enough. The soggy beam quietly parted and the whole entrance to the mine started to slowly crumble down on them both. Lou was ready, he had expected this and so continued his motion to push out from under the detective as the man fell, out and up toward daylight. If the man had not gasped that one word, Lou would have gotten away clean. The short, short word was shocked greeting, cry of fright and plea for help all rolled in one, and Lou was suddenly frantic to release his prey from the trap he had just sprung. Was it too late?
Desperately Lou turned, grabbed the
man and pulled. No use. He was not near strong enough to pull him
free. Dirt and rocks, leaves, clumps of ferns; it seemed the whole
hillside was sliding down to bury them both. The hand he pulled on
went limp, but Lou would not let go. There must be a way. He
couldn’t just let him die. Lou struggled up, set his feet, pulled,
and pulled harder. It was useless. Then a great moss-covered boulder
came rolling and sliding down at him. He tried to step to the side,
but still it reached out and struck him a smashing blow as it
tumbled on by. He felt ribs break and he fell, but his two-handed
grip on the dead hand never slackened, and suddenly the man’s head
and upper body slid free of the cold earth. Lou crawled back up and looked into the man’s face. Was he really dead? If he wasn’t, he was sure hurt bad. He had to get help; maybe a doctor could save him. Lou tried to stand, but something was wrong inside. He tasted blood, but there wasn’t much pain. What he wanted most was to curl up and sleep off the damage. Instead he started crawling — through the green bushes, down into the ravine, through the icy stream and then up the long hill to Hammerman’s. He fights the weakness of his limbs and the desire to sleep. He keeps crawling on and on, up and up; his mind whirling with that one awful word. It rackets round his head as he makes his slow way, and the sky above brightens, and he nears the top. That one word, uttered as the world fell down around them. That one word the man chose as his last. Lou’s delirious mind shows him that moment again and again. He smashes upward into the stranger. The beam parts. The man falls, and then he breathes that single terrible word — “Pa.” |
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