House of Gold (11 page)

"But–" Buzz was out of ideas.

A long pause on the line. He heard a woman's voice in the background. "Who ya talkin' to, Lee?"

"Some crazy guy from Cleveland says he wants me to-take him up the mountain to see the Lady!"

Buzz heard a womanly guffaw in the background.

Royalle returned his attention to the crazy guy from Cleveland.
"Maybe some other time...uh, what did you say yer name was?"

"Buzz," Buzz replied glumly.
Montana: what a disaster,
he thought.

"Buzz then. Sorry. No way yer gettin' up to see that statue. Not in this weather."

The man, clearly growing angry, had punctuated his sentence with a foul word.

"Listen, uh," Buzz stalled, mildly shocked by Royalle's earthy language. Buzz wondered briefly why he was bothering
to press on with this sudden Don Quixote request.

Then it came to him.

The man on the other end was waiting...for what, neither man really knew.

"Listen, Lee, I read your damned book. I feel like I know you. If you somehow got a friggin giant statue up on that mountain–you can sure as hell get me up there too if you put your friggin mind to it!"

A very long pause. Then a gruff laugh, and another
curse word, this one coming with a good-natured tone.

"Okay there, Mr. Buzz from Cleveland. I'll figger out a way up. Meet me after Mass tomorrow at Saint Mary's."

By coincidence, it was the same parish to which Buzz had gotten directions earlier.

"Eight o'clock Mass, then," Buzz confirmed.

"Yeah, eight."

Both men paused. Buzz considered telling Royalle about Sam, but decided not to push his luck.

"So long," Buzz said.

Royalle hung up without saying good-bye.

Sam was looking up from his screen, staring at Buzz. "What was that all about?"

"We're going to see Our Lady tomorrow."

Sam actually smiled. His first of the entire day.

"Excellent. So how is he going to get you up the mountain?"

"I have no idea. He said he'll think of something. And he'll get
both of us
up the mountain. No way I'm
going up there all alone with that madman."

+  +  +

Buzz and Sam sat in the back pew of the church during Mass; Lee Royalle was sitting right in front of them. They recognized him from the photos in his book. He was a thin, wiry man, now in his sixties, with a slight stoop in his upper back and neck, and a full head of salty brown hair. He wore a Notre Dame Fighting Irish winter coat, which he
did not take off–a practice shared by the other Butteites at Mass, which was well-attended. After Communion, Buzz noticed that there were unusual Stations of the Cross that had been fashioned out of bronze. He did not know that the very same Lee James Royalle kneeling in front of him had been the sculptor.

Royalle turned to leave, and Buzz stuck out his hand. The older man shook it, and Buzz couldn't
help but notice the disappointment in the man's face. Royalle's hands were strong, with long fingers hardened with calluses.

Royalle looked to Sam as the churchgoers filed out past them. "I hope you're Buzz."

Sam said, "Sorry, I'm Sam Fisk. This is Buzz."

Buzz tilted his head to the side and gave Lee his best Tom Cruise
I Guess I'm Going to the University of Illinois
smile. "Hello Mr. Royalle!"

Lee looked him up and down again and revealed the reason for his disappointment. "You weigh in at two-fifty, two seventy-five, don't you, son?"

"More like two seventy-five," Buzz replied, a bit confused.

They made their way outside. It was cold and windy.

"You ever ride a snowmobile?" Lee asked.

His features, scraggly from years of hunting in raw weather, became more distinct in the sharp sunlight.

Sam and Buzz shook their heads.

Lee Royalle of Butte, Montana, fresh from Holy Communion, spit a cussword foul enough to make a grandmother drop her stockings.

"That a problem, sir?" Buzz asked with his most courteous voice.

"Hell, we'll figure something out," he said as much to himself as Buzz. "Your tall friend plannin' to come up with us?"

"Yes," Sam answered.

Royalle cursed again, in a natural,
almost happy sort of way. Buzz and Sam were already becoming accustomed to his expletives.

"Follow me. No, wait," he said, thinking, rubbing his chin. "Jump in my Ram. Hell, I'll drive you over to the damned mountain."

Minutes later, they sat three across in the pick-up, which was a muscular new Dodge, careening across town to the highway. Sam was in the middle, his mile-long legs bunching his
knees up above dashboard level. Country music blasted from the sound system.

"How long 'til we get there?" Buzz asked.

"Huh?"

"I said: How long 'til we get there?" Buzz shouted.

"Huh?!"

Buzz gave up. It didn't seem to bother Lee that he hadn't answered Buzz's question.

Turned out Lee Royalle was hard of hearing.

Ten minutes later, Lee pulled up to the front drive of–Harvey Stone's farm. It was
the same place Hugh Wiggins had shown them yesterday afternoon, right down to the mutt dogs, starving cow, and raging one foot "river." Except there were five dogs today. Lee turned off the engine.

"Harvey's usually off a-hunting on a sunny day like this one–damn!" Lee said with good cheer before beeping his horn.

The dogs came running, and started growling fiercely just beyond the truck doors.

"We've been here!" Buzz exclaimed. It just had to be a sign. But a sign that meant what?

"Thought you said you've never been to Butte?" Lee asked.

"That's right, but a real estate agent took us here yesterday. What is this place?"

Lee frowned as if it were obvious where they were.

They were at Harvey Stone's place. Right around the backside of the mountain with the road that led to Our Lady of
the Rockies. He didn't bother to tell the crazy man from Cleveland this. My God, Our Lady sometimes sent him some real beauts.

Lee jumped out and ran to the house and walked in the front door, closing it behind him.

Sam finally spoke up, for the first time since after Mass: "Buzz, are you sure you can trust this guy?"

Buzz smiled widely. "If he can bring me up that mountain, I don't care. I kinda
like him, don't you?"

Sam nodded, and cracked a big-toothed smile.

Sure enough, a fairly young man–no more than forty–thin, with a nice smile, who must have been Harvey Stone, Lee alongside, emerged from the house, and started fiddling with the two snowmobiles next to the porch.

Lee ran over to the truck. "I guess Our Lady wants you to get up this damned mountain today!" He ran back to the snowmobiles.

Excitement overcoming his fear of the dogs, Buzz jumped out of the truck. The mangy dogs gave him a sniff and a cursory growl, but they let him pass as he trotted over to the two Montanans.

"Harvey, this is Buzz," Lee said, not looking up from the snowmobile.

Harvey nodded. "Hi." Then returned to the job at hand.

"It conks out when it runs hot, so just leave it," Stone continued to Lee. "Harvey
Jr. is out with the good sled today. I'll go up with him and get it later if that happens."

Buzz wasn't exactly sure he liked hearing these engineering details.

"Sure thing," Lee replied.

After another five minutes of adjusting this and priming that on the bigger machine, both machines were sputtering in neutral. It was clear that the larger black snowmobile–the one that "tended to overheat,"
was quite old–and was intended for Buzz. The newer yellow machine, which had started right up, was assigned to Lee, with Sam riding behind.

"Never driven a sled, eh?" Harvey asked Buzz.

"Nope. Got any advice?"

"Just twist on this handle to go forward. And don't fall off."

Buzz nodded.

Don't think about it. Just do it. Don't think about it. Just do it
...he repeated to himself.

Now that Buzz's intense
eleven-second course in snowmobile operation was fully complete, they all bundled up and prepared to conquer a mountain.

"Ever been on a mountain this high before?" Lee shouted over the rattle of the engines, buttoning his tan Carhartt coat around his scarf.

The Clevelanders shook their heads.

This seemed quite amusing to the mountain man, judging by his hearty laugh.

He twisted his throttle and
drew away with a whir and a kick of snow. Buzz found his own throttle and gingerly began to follow. The first half mile of road beyond Stone's driveway was a gradual incline, wide and smooth, and the snow was packed down. Soon Lee and Sam were thirty yards ahead. Buzz zigged and zagged, and eventually got an uncertain hang of the machine.

Four of the dogs were barking and yipping on either side
and in front of his sled, adding to the video-game feeling of the whole adventure. They left him alone a quarter mile up the road, and he imagined that their message was clear:
Good luck, crazy man! We're savvy, outdoor country dogs who grew up on this here mountain, and there's no friggin' way we're foolish enough to follow you. You'll come back in a casket and we'll howl then!

Buzz was starting
to notice how truly cold it was with the wind. He was squinting, and pulled his Red Sox cap over his eyes to brace against the elements.

How he regretted not bringing his heavy-duty gloves and snow hat on this trip–and he had left his sunglasses in the rental car at the church. As it was, he was thankful for the leather work gloves he had found in the pockets of his spring jacket. This morning,
he had donned two layers of T-shirts, one polo, and his Tabasco Sauce sweatshirt underneath the jacket, as well as a pair of long shorts underneath his baggy khakis. Unfortunately he and Sam were wearing sneakers.

The road narrowed significantly, and he saw Lee and Sam dip into the pines. He followed them in, feeling more confident handling the machine. Soon, like tiny beetles climbing along a
groove on a peeled apple, they came out to the side of the mountain.

He would look up to catch glimpses of the other snowmobile on the longer straightaways, but generally concentrated on watching and tracing the trail in the snow left by Lee's machine. Occasionally, he had to slow, then steer around washouts which left him with a scant yard or so of sturdy path. Other times, he revved the engine
and blasted through drifts–reading clues from Lee's broken tracks.

Butte was significantly above sea level, so they hadn't started at ground zero. He realized there was no direct way to the top, as they switched back every so often in long, uneven zigs and zags. As three thousand feet became four thousand, and four became five, and the road which was cut into the edge of the mountainside became
narrower, and pine trees less dense, he was simultaneously juiced by two emotions: fear and wonder.

Fear of falling several thousand feet to his certain death if he veered five or six feet off the trail; wonder at the most breathtaking views of mountains he had ever seen in his life. The whole experience was... pure ...immaculate...

...like Our Lady. I'm going to see Our Lady!

He started grooving
to the muse of the job at hand, enjoying himself immensely, lost in the little details of staying in one piece (
"And don't fall off!"
) while gustily grabbing as many glances from the path to the vistas as he could dare.

The machine broke down at seven thousand feet.

His ancient Ski-Doo suddenly lost power, and ground to a halt in a three-foot drift. Somehow, Lee sensed this and doubled back.

"She's just around the corner! Another mile, boys!" he yelled after killing his engine and freeing a few choice curses into the silent, pristine surroundings.

"What are we gonna do next?" Buzz asked, wiping ice from the hair around his ears.

"Just leave the damn things here. Get 'em on the way back down. Follow me. I'll break trail. She's not far now! She's expecting you! Don't disappoint her!"

And like a mountain ram, Lee scooted ahead in snow up to his knees. Sam and Buzz gave each other a look and a shrug of a shoulder, and had after him.

Twenty-five yards later they were huffing and puffing, each step a mighty endeavor. Lee doubled back again.

"Mountain air. Really sucks the life outta yer legs!"

He wasn't even breathing hard. He slapped Buzz on the back. "Move out, old man!" He darted
off.

He's sixty-four years old, and he's calling me an old man? Well, he sure makes me feel like one.

Sam and Buzz trudged along, placing their feet in the trail Lee had broken, which varied from two feet of snow up to their hips. They stopped every ten or fifteen yards to catch their breath. They were on the backside of the mountain now, and the views led to...more and more mountains, as far
as the eye could see. Lee was a half-mile ahead of them, sitting on a boulder by the side of the road above the snow.

No farms or ranches that way,
Buzz thought.

"Come on, old man!" Lee called to Buzz. "She's just around the corner."

There was plenty of time to enjoy the scenery.

"Hear that?" Buzz breathed to Sam.

Sam stopped to listen. "Hear what?"

"Silence. Perfect silence."

Buzz was thirsty–so
he ate snow. They decided to try to pray Hail Marys out loud to help with the pace, but they didn't have the lungs to keep it up.

It seemed like forever, but they finally caught up to Lee. The snow was not nearly as high anymore–up to their ankles. As they plodded around the next long, lazy turn, Buzz and Sam realized that the prevailing winds had blown most of the snow off the road in this section.

"Just a little ways more and we'll see her!" Lee encouraged them.

His energy was relentless, exasperating–and inspirational. It was slowly dawning on Buzz that this mountain man was a breed apart. Never in his life had Buzz so regretted being a New Jersey boy from the suburbs. He would have to redefine what he believed constituted that highly sought after trait of American manhood: toughness.

Lee is tough. I'm...not.