Slocum 428 (7 page)

Jigger's spirits rose with each step until his brief, sour-tasting encounter with Torrance Whitaker dissipated. By the time he reached the steps of the bank, he was nearly back to feeling his excitement about getting paid for his logs. But not quite all the way. And it was only because Whitaker had to get that dig in about his own dear Ermaline being betrothed to Jordan, that dimwitted offspring of Whitaker.

“How could she?” he said aloud as his gnarled work-hardened hand closed on the brass door handle of the bank's front door. It opened wide, with no answer to his question, but with a low squawk and a loud, brassy bell's ring that indicated he was about to conduct business.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. McGee?” said Burke, the banker. “I thought this little meeting of ours was surely due to be postponed.”

“And why did you think that might happen, eh, Burke?” Jigger hoisted his big leather satchel onto the counter with a thud. “As it happens, I have my payment right here.”

The banker's confident smile drooped. “Well . . . ah, good. That's good. Yessiree.”

Jigger stood by smiling, eyes narrowed a bit. Finally he said, “How's that feel, eh? Ha! It's good to watch you squirm, Burke. I been the one pinned by your gaze for far too long. I'm enjoying this, sure as shootin', I'm enjoying myself.”

Jigger rubbed his hands together, then said, “All right, enough of old home week. I got things to do and people to see. Ain't often a loggin' man gets into town. Let's get this all counted up nice and fair and square, and I can get goin' about my business.”

Jigger watched the banker's eyes widen as he took out the money, set it on the counter, in nice, even stacks. “Now, you count and I'll count, and we'll either agree or go back and count it all over again. And I know neither of us wants to be in here late, especially as it's a fine cold evening and there's lots to do. And lest I forget, I'm going to need a signed receipt for all that money, Burke.”

“Why, of course you'll get one. Same as all my customers.” The man tried to look as if he'd been slapped, but it was a weak attempt, Jigger knew.

“I wasn't so sure, now that you're lorded over by his holiness, Torrance Whitaker.”

“Whatever do you mean?” said Burke, pausing in mid-count.

“Oh, don't give me that hill of beans, Burke! You know as well as me that Whitaker bought his way onto the board. Heck, unless he's lying to me—which now that I think on it is entirely possible—he's the new ramrod of this bankin' outfit. Shameless, I tell you. I never in all my days seen a town as scrimy and whiny and shameless. Used to be we all had a backbone. But since that tub of bear grease rolled on into our midst, why, we've been nothing but backside-kissing fools!” Jigger pounded a fist hand on the counter. A stack of coins shook and slid to the side.

“Please, Mr. McGee,” said the red-faced banker. “I'm trying to keep a straight tally.”

“And see that you do . . . ” Jigger was in high dudgeon, could feel the familiar sensation. Why, since he had to spend the night in Timber Hills, he might just make a quick tour of the various establishments, make sure these people knew exactly what they were doing in groveling to ol' Whitaker, that sidewinding rascal.

Start out at the Plug Nickel, head on down to Rollo's House of Sport, then end the tour with a visit to Whitaker's own dump, the Bluebird. Maybe by then he'd have thought of something to say to the fat man.

It didn't take Burke long to come to a figure that they both agreed was the correct amount of the cash from Jigger's satchel. He made out a formal receipt, signed it before Jigger, pointed a tapping finger to where he wanted Jigger to countersign, then folded it in thirds, sealed it with a glob of hot wax, which impressed Jigger somewhat, and slid the paper across the counter to McGee.

“Thank you kindly, Burke. Pleasure doing business with you.” Jigger doffed his wool stocking cap, stuffed the letter into his satchel, and headed on out the door and back into the bitter cold evening. He pulled in a deep lungful of air, still wearing his smile—for he knew where he was headed and what he was going to get up to. Stir up some coals under the asses of these cushy-bottomed town dwellers! But first he had to tend to family matters. Had to see if Ermaline was in—where else would she be? Sparking with that useless lunk, Jordan Whitaker?

“Oh, what is she thinking?” he muttered again, crossing the street to Mrs. Tigg's boardinghouse. He stood before the front door, dim lamp glow from inside the sitting room barely lighting the entry. He gave himself a once-over look-see, banged his knee-high leather boots together at the heel, readjusted his knitted hat, smoothing it and pulling its ribbed rim down to just above his bushy eyebrows. He ran a knobby hand down his mustache and beard, smoothing them, combing lightly with his fingers to make sure there wasn't any leftover jerky or piecrust stuck in there, then cleared his throat and rapped hard on the white-painted door with his big knuckles.

Within moments he heard footsteps—boot heels, fast, quick, sure, had to be a woman's—on the floor inside, drawing closer. He cleared his throat again and pulled a wide smile. The door handle turned, the door swung inward, and there was his little girl, Ermaline, looking so pretty.

It had been two weeks since he'd seen her, and she looked as lovely as he ever remembered her looking—from when she was a swaddled bairn in her mother's arms through her little girly years, and later, when it was just the two of them—and now here she was, a lovely, grown-up woman. And wearing a pretty dress and all. She even had long hair. She'd been back for some months, but he still couldn't quite get over the changes in his little girl.

“Daddy!”

Their hug lasted longer than Jigger would have liked, given as they were still on the doorstep of the boardinghouse. He didn't mind that his daughter liked to hug, always had been a hugger, for that matter. He always liked it, made him feel like he was special, but in the public eye, it made him feel weak, queasy. Even if it was his own daughter. But he also knew this wouldn't last, this happy feeling. Because as much as he wanted to spend time with his daughter—and he didn't care what it was they did, share a pot of tea, maybe some buttered biscuits, take a walk in the cold night air—he had to get to the point of his stopping to see her.

“Ermaline, my girly,” said Jigger.

She smiled and led him into the front sitting room of the boardinghouse. No one else was in the room, and a small fire crackled in the woodstove in the center of the south wall.

“I was reading when you knocked.”

“Sorry 'bout that,” said Jigger, turning the rolled cuff of his knitted hat in his gnarled hands. It felt right odd, being inside a real building, especially a fancy house in town. But she seemed to like it and that was what mattered. Though maybe she'd gotten too much of a taste for town and the suspicious ways of its dwellers.

“Don't be silly, Daddy. I'd rather visit with you anytime than read some old book.”

“I thought you liked readin' them things.”

“I do, but I like spending time with you even more.”

“Hmm,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I do like the sound of that. But how about town living? That suit you more than being out at the Tamarack?”

Ermaline dropped into a stuffed chair with a sigh. “Oh, Daddy. That's not a fair question.” She looked at him. “Since I got back to Timber Hills, my life has gotten more . . . complicated. Otherwise I'd be out at the camp right now. You know that.” She smiled.

“Do I?” He knew it was a low blow, but he had to get to the truth. Here goes, he said to himself.

“What do you mean, Daddy?”

There was a hint of suspicion in her voice, and justifiably so, he thought with a sliver of pride. After all, he'd raised her to be savvy with folks, to get to know what they were really talking about. The words behind their words, so to speak. That skill had rarely let him down.

“What I mean, daughter, is, well . . . ” Dang it! Why couldn't he just get to the point where she was concerned? He didn't have a problem telling his men just where the bear went when he had to, so why was his little girl any different?

“Out with it, Daddy!” She stamped her feet just like her mother used to do.

“Okay then. It seems to me you are bound and determined to roust me at every turn.”

“What do you mean?”

“That Whitaker boy. He's, why, he's nothing but a . . . lump! Just like his father, only near as I can tell, he ain't fit to make a patch on the old shyster's ass. And I don't give backhanded comments easily, especially to the likes of that weasel, Whitaker.”

Then he saw another look that reminded him of his long-dead wife and mother of this child—she had that jaw set firm, and sparks nearly shot right out of her eyes at him. But she said nothing—yet. He knew it was coming. So he took his chance while he could.

“I've been told that you intend to marry up with that . . . great lump of a boy. Is that the case?”

Her fists were balled now, and though he knew she wasn't about to lay a hand on him, he wasn't quite sure just what she intended to do.

“I don't know where you heard that, Daddy.” Her voice was measured, and she spoke through clenched teeth. “But I will tell you that maybe I just will. Nothing of the sort has been said, but you would have been the first person to know—at least from me!”

Jigger smiled and slapped his knee. “I knew it! I knew that sack of dung was lying to me. Right to my face! I should have expected no less!”

Then his daughter did a curious thing. She narrowed her eyes and, in an even tone, said, “Maybe Mr. Whitaker is right, Daddy. Maybe it's time for a change of guard in Timber Hills.”

“What are you saying, daughter? What's that evil man done to your thinking?”

“He hasn't done anything. But it seems to me he's not all that wrong. He said that since I know a thing or two about logging, and since I also went to school back East, he's asked me to help him manage his business dealings.”

“What?” Jigger's own fists clenched and unclenched, like two callused hearts beating out of control.

“You heard me,” she said with a smirk. “He also said that maybe you should step aside, let others come in and set up shop here in Timber Hills. Fresh blood.”

“Step aside? Step aside?” Jigger whirled about the small, fancy room, waving his arms as if he were trying to take flight. “Why, you know that this town wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me and my two dead partners, rest their souls! I employed every person in this town at one time or another. Logging is the lifeblood of this town, hang it all!”

“But times are changing, Daddy. There's more to life than chopping down trees!”

Jigger felt as if he'd been punched straight in the gut. The air left him in a whoosh. What could he do? This was no daughter he knew. “Can't believe you just said that to me, girly. I . . . I don't know you anymore.” He turned his back to her and reeled from the room, and she just watched him go. They each knew the other was as stubborn as a kicking mule and would never consider giving in to the other. So she let him go.

Once he was outside, the cold air helped sharpen Jigger's senses. It stung going in, pinched his nose, and burned his cheeks. It felt good, and reminded him of why he had come to town. This situation with his daughter was not good, not good at all. But surely the girl would come to her senses.

He had to think of a way to make that happen even faster—just needed time, time to think, time to come up with a plan to run Whitaker and his dumb boy out of town once and for all, before they did anything more to foul his dear Ermaline's mind. He just didn't understand it; she'd always been an independent sort, able to see through the fancy trickeries of magic makers. Bu not this time.

He shook his head. Save it for the trail, Jigger—you got a whole camp of men back in the mountains waiting on you, he told himself. He made straight for Bumpy's General Store, knowing that while the man would have closed up for the night, he'd fill Jigger's order, have it ready to go on the back loading dock by first light.

And then he'd have himself a drink or three, see if the whole town felt as his daughter did. Might be he'd wind the night up at the Bluebird, find out what Whitaker had to offer.

Slocum awoke early the next morning with a single thought compelling him to get up and out before the rest of the early-rising camp stretched and yawned. Something had gnawed at him all night, even as he'd had a surprisingly peaceful sleep.

The night spent in the stable, tight though it was, was also vastly more comfortable and restful than spending time in the bunkhouse with all its stinks and groans and snores. Horses brought their own such potential interruptions to sleep, but he'd always preferred the company of animals to people, and for that he was grateful.

He'd awakened with a single mission on his mind—come hell or high water, he was determined to get to the bottom of this skoocoom business. In all his days roving the trails of the West, he'd come across a number of things that were either outright lies, slowly explained away as hoaxes, or genuine mysteries. He suspected this would fall somewhere in the middle, though even he had doubts as to its status as inexplicable. He certainly couldn't explain it away—yet.

As he tugged on his second boot, he vowed, too, to find the source of his suspicion regarding those two men who'd attacked him. They'd scampered off before he'd returned. At least he had roughed them up good, enough so that they would be sporting evidence of their lost battle for some time to come. Now all he had to do was track them, or whoever had ripped apart the storehouse. Were those two men pretending to be skoocooms? He hoped to find out once he hit the woods and looked for sign—no easy task considering all the foul weather they'd had.

As he high-stepped along the drifted-in path to the savaged storehouse, Slocum bent low, the just-rising sun offering enough reflected glow to assist him in his search for clues. But it was a fruitless search, as he suspected it might well be, given the weather's turn.

Still, if the loggers wouldn't take the opportunity to follow the filled-in dimples of the tracks that led away to the edge of the close-by forest and beyond, into the still-dark trees, then he would.

“Wish I wasn't so curious,” he said in a mumble, as a stiff breeze kicked up and slapped him in the face. He flipped up the tall sheepskin collar of his mackinaw and cradled his rifle in the crook of one arm. In the other he hoisted the Colt Navy free of the holster, thoughts of the unearthly shrieks and howls of the other night dogging him. He pulled in a deep breath and headed on in.

Once he found himself well into the tree line, the stiff wind became nothing more than a high-up soughing in the treetops. Down at ground level there was barely a breeze. And as he'd hoped, the well-trammeled path had barely been dusted in. He bent low and peered down into the snowy tracks, cursing himself for not bringing a lamp. The daylight slowly filtered in through the trunks of the trees, but it would be chasing him the deeper he ventured into the forest.

He didn't have all that much time to pursue this path, as he had to get back for breakfast—something he sorely wanted—or he'd go without until lunchtime. And the prospect of limbing trees on an empty stomach was not a possibility. He didn't think he could withstand that for too many swings of the axe.

He squinted into a couple of the deep prints, tugged the end of a leather glove off with his teeth, then felt down in there. Despite the numbing cold, his fingertips felt a series of deep founded depressions where a man's boot toe would be,
should
be. But the print was much wider at the toe than at the other end. The rest of the track also bore little resemblance to a man's boot print. And overall, it was much, much larger—both in length and width—than any print he'd seen made by a man. It was not unlike a grizzly track, but he'd never seen anything that big, and he'd seen a few big ol' bull grizzlies in his day. Even tangled with a few, and counted himself far too lucky to have lived.

What would happen if he tangled with whatever the hell this thing was? What if it was something more than a couple of pissed-off loggers plotting out some odd revenge on Jigger McGee?

And the kicker of this entire set of tracks he was following was that it was made, as near as he could tell, by two creatures. He paused, crouched in the snow, in the quiet, dim forest, looking around at the slowly lightening landscape. And that was when the creeping, hair-raising feeling once again overtook him, draped itself over him like an invisible cloak of tremors and icy fingertips.

Something was watching him. And whatever it was, it wasn't very far away. All of a sudden, the idea of tracking and following this cold trail didn't seem like a very good one. Not at all. He couldn't put a finger on it, but he knew, just as he knew that if he stopped breathing he'd die, that he had to get out of there and back to the camp. Something in this forest was watching him—had probably been watching him since he'd walked in there—and really didn't want him there.

The feeling clung to him well past the edge of the trees and back into the camp clearing.